


Forgotten Angel

by happylindsay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Mark of Cain, Anal Sex, Angst, Biting, Bottom!Cas, Cas in love, Dean In Love, Depressed Dean, Destiel - Freeform, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prostitute Castiel, Prostitution, Self-Harm, Sexual Violence, Slow Burn, So much angst, Worried Sam, mention of drugs, possible rape/non con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2018-06-10 00:38:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 76
Words: 95,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6930871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happylindsay/pseuds/happylindsay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Cas looked around his empty apartment remembering when he'd had a purpose, when he'd been someone. And he realized at that moment why he kept his angel blade–because it was getting harder and harder for him to convince himself that he hadn't always been a nobody. Hadn't always been a whore."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Here I am

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is not my usual genre and I hesitated posting it at all. I tagged a lot of stuff because I wasn't sure where exactly I was going to take this story, but I'll be sure to add/remove tags as I go, so keep an eye out for triggers, and I'll try to make a note of them.

Cas crashed heavily onto his covers, sighing through sore muscles and a tender ass. He had started to lift his shirt up but abandoned the effort in fatigue before laying on his back, his stomach half exposed to the chilly night air of his apartment. In the background, the distant city sounds of cars and music hummed through his thin windows to his ears. Cas groaned as he pushed his shoes off his heels with his toes, not bothering to sit up as he did. He rubbed his hand on his torso against the side of his belly button, wincing as it connected with the tender, newly bruised flesh there. 

_Four hundred_ he thought to himself to reassure him that the bodily punishment he'd received hadn't gone unrewarded. 

He continued to rub his hands against the purpled patch despite the pain, viewing it almost inquisitively, his chin on his chest. Not for the first time, Cas marveled that humans were so fragile and vulnerable before reminding himself that he was one of them too. _I'm breakable,_ he mused, the thought detached and without emotion _._

But it wasn't exactly true and he knew it. He may not be an angel anymore, but his body was strong. And his time in this world had taught him that he could defend himself against most aggressors. He'd even been able to defend himself against other angels despite the fact he'd lost his grace. 

No, he wasn't vulnerable, no matter how much of a sub his clients liked him to be for them. And a lot of them liked a big, strong man on his knees. The man Cas had been with tonight had preferred to have his whore bent in front, shaking as he slammed into Cas unforgivingly, freckling his skin with bruises as he clenched the angel from behind. And Cas let him without hesitation. What were a few marks and a sore hole to an angel of the Lord? _Nothing,_ he thought. Because he wasn't one anymore anyway. 

He sighed, finally sitting up slowly, his muscles protesting and made his way to the bathroom flipping on the light. The dim bulbs blinked on with a protest, casting dim yellow light across the one bedroom apartment. Cas looked at his surroundings. It wasn't homey exactly, but it wasn't terrible. The construction was clearly not new and the space was cramped and small, but Cas had always felt that the old architecture had a sense of charm to it. Even if it meant his heater was often shoddy and his windows were thin. But Cas kept it clean and free of clutter. Which wasn't hard. After all, he had very few possessions besides his angel blade. His eyes peeked to the floor board he'd hid the weapon under, wondering why he still kept it. Most of the angels likely thought him dead, and he wasn't seeking out other supernatural creatures anymore. He was a prostitute now, not a warrior. _I should probably just get a taser like the other escorts,_ he thought, not for the first time, but as usual, he dismissed the idea. 

Cas shed his clothing slowly, letting it fall to the ground in a forgotten heap to be cleaned up tomorrow. He decided to take a bath tonight instead of a shower, letting the water run through his fingers before stopping the drain to fill the tub. He watched the display for a moment, noticing the shiny spots of turbulence where water crashed against water, finding himself hypnotized. He shook himself out of the stupor just in time to turn the water off and sink into a very full bath. The water was just on the warm side. Not hot. It was never hot. But Cas didn't find himself shivering either. 

Quickly, Cas lathered his hands with a bar of soap, running his foamy fingers across different patches of skin and crevices, washing away the filth of the street. 

When he was finished, he stood, looking down at the drain sucking away the dirt in small swirls as it emptied the old ceramic tub. Satisfied, he grabbed his only towel, drying himself off before running it across his matted hair, disheveling it. 

Cas put on a pair of loose boxers then lifted his toothbrush heavily to his mouth, brushing his teeth with his eyes closed letting his head fall back on the door frame. Sleep started to claim him while he was still standing. His hand unconsciously stilled as his brain started to swirl with hazy images of dreamscape: Metatron, Raphael, the impala. . . Dean. He opened his eyes sadly and spit forcefully into the sink before making his way back to his bed. Laying down, he reminded himself that those things, those people didn't belong in his life anymore. And it wasn't too tricky to convince himself that all of that happened to another person, because none of it felt as real as the cold air that tickled his skin or the sore ache of three Johns fucking him earlier that evening while whispering filthy obscenities into his ear. 

But despite himself, he thought about how Dean had always known Cas when he was naïve, still perplexed by human emotion and complexities. When he was innocent. _I'm not anymore,_ Cas thought as he remembered rough hands clenching at his hair, while Cas supplied the filthy moans he knew the Johns always liked. No. Cas had experienced the world now. Not from heaven's telescope, but from dark alleys and grime covered streets with a hungry stomach and no angel blade. There was no denying it. He was human. 

Cas climbed under the covers of his bed, trying to remember to be grateful he had a steady income now. A place to shower. A bed. Food to eat. Because unlike some of the people he'd gotten to know in his line of work, he wasn't on drugs, which made it a whole hell of a lot easier to pay rent, even if there wasn't much left over. But it didn't make him feel better. In fact, he felt worse tonight than he'd felt in a long time, despite the fact that he'd made more money than he'd usually gotten in a week. He looked around his empty apartment remembering when he'd had a purpose, when he'd been someone. And he realized at that moment why he kept his angel blade, because it was getting harder and harder for him to convince himself that he hadn't always been a nobody. Hadn't always been a whore. 

Cas sighed and pushed those thoughts aside, turning to his side and letting sleep claim him. 


	2. And Dean. . .

Sam found Dean at his usual bar, too many beers past his buzz. He frowned at his brother's form slumped heavily into the vinyl of the booth, his head on the tabletop, his mouth moving slowly as he stared at the wall across from him. It wasn't until Sam got close that he realized he was poorly singing the words to the song playing in the bar. 

It was a country song and Sam doubted that Dean actually knew the words since he adamantly opposed the genre outside of his plastered state. And, sure enough, when Sam got close, he realized that Dean was supplementing the words of a Led Zepplin song to the hip hop country melody and it was a total mess. Sam probably would have laughed if the whole thing wasn't so sad. 

“Dean!” Sam growled, causing his brother to jump and lift his head, almost drooling a little as he did. Dean's eyes were unfocused as he looked at Sam, but he immediately gave him a goofy looking grin. 

“Sammy,” he said, patting the empty spot on the seat next to him. “Glad you could make it.” 

Dean's words were slurred, and Sam gave his brother a frustrated look. 

“This is,” Dean continued, not seeming to notice Sam's look before his voice faded out. Dean looked around with a confused expression. “Where'd she go?” Dean asked, blinking. 

“Who?” Sam asked, taking in the sight of his brother's shirt which appeared to have had beer spilled on it at one point in the night. 

Dean's eyebrows scrunched and his eyes closed a little, “the hottie I've been flirting with,” he said, as if Sam should know. Sam looked around, not seeing anyone. 

“She's probably been gone awhile, Dean,” he said, not camouflaging his annoyance. “God, you're totally smashed.” 

Dean adjusted his shirt, taking a drink of his beer before letting it fall, realizing it was gone with a frown. 

Sam sighed and stood then pulled his brother to his feet, paying the bill left on the table. “C'mon Dean,” he said, hauling him out to the impala for the fourth time that month, glad he'd decided to take a cab to get there. Once Dean was slumped next to him in the passenger's seat, his older brother shut his eyes, leaning his head against the window. 

Sam put both his hands on the wheel, stalling for a minute before starting the car, thinking. _What the hell am I going to do with you, Dean?_ he wondered. 

Dean's drinking had gotten worse, and though he always agreed to a hunt with Sam, it didn't seem to lift his spirits for very long. And Sam wished, not for the first time, that they could just find Cas, because even if Dean refused to talk about it, Sam knew that Cas was the reason. He was the reason that Dean had drifted into depression and self loathing the moment Sam had gotten better and had expelled Gadreel. 

Not that some of it didn't have to do with the accusing attitude that Sam had approached Dean's actions with. Sam had been furious he'd let an angel inside of him. But they'd since found a way to cope with that. But Dean still hadn't gotten better. And Sam realized that part of the reason he'd found it in himself to start to forgive Dean was that he knew the reason that Cas had left. Dean had asked him to. For Sam. Sam now knew why, but Cas didn't, and Sam was sure Dean felt the shame of having kicked the angel to the curb in his greatest hour of need. Guilt spread through Sam's chest as he contemplated the unspoken knowledge Sam had gathered about how Dean felt about Cas. His brother had sacrificed the man he loved for him. And now, Sam was losing Dean to the despair of it. 

He looked at Dean's sleeping face, wondering if his brother even understood his own feelings about the angel. _Probably not,_ he concluded. 

_I'll find him,_ Sam thought to Dean as he started the car, as if his thoughts would somehow comfort his brother's sleeping form. _I'll bring him home, Dean._


	3. All of Us

Dean slept in longer than usual, looking at the clock by his bed in the bunker, not wanting to get up. When he heard Sam knocking at the door, he pulled the covers tighter over his head, groaning. Sam took that as his cue and walked in. 

“Hey Dean,” he said, sitting on the side of his bed. Dean flipped the covers off his head and looked at his brother's cheery expression— The exact reason he was hoping to stay in bed today. 

Dean was already in a mood, and Sam could clearly tell. His younger brother hesitated before he spoke; “So what would you like to do today?” he asked, lightly. 

Dean sat up, letting his hands rest on his knees, his feet and ankles devoured by the nest of blankets underneath him. He ran his fingers through his hair, sighing. 

With his chin down by his shirt, he could smell the beer from last night on him and he marveled that his hangover wasn't worse than the dull throbbing at the back of his head. _Or is that always there?_ he wondered, realizing he had little connection with his own body anymore after years of mistreatment. 

Dean tucked an elbow in one of the shirt's sleeves, taking it off one arm at a time before throwing it to the hamper. He missed, and the shirt fell in a small clump next to the wall. He shrugged, glad to be free of the incriminating evidence of last night. And then he looked at Sam, remembering his brother coming to get him at the bar, and felt shame creeping in. 

“Look, about last night,” he started. 

“Don't worry about that right now,” said Sam, cutting him off. “You get a freebie today.” 

And Dean's immediate reaction was to sigh as he swung out of bed, inhaling as he let his bare feet connect with the cold floor. He stood, realizing he was still wearing last night's jeans. He walked to the kitchen, Sam trailing behind like an quiet shadow as he walked, clearly letting Dean wake up fully before trying to talk with him anymore. Dean had the terrible dry taste of alcohol laced into his tongue and was eager to fill his mouth with something to make him forget it. But when he entered the kitchen, it smelled amazing. Sam had actually cooked, and it looked delicious. Bacon. Eggs. French toast. 

Dean turned to Sam, eyebrows raised. “You do all this for me, Martha Stewart?” 

Sam pulled out two plates and started filling them up with food. He put one in front of his brother as Dean sat down, then held out a fork for him, smiling: 

“Happy Birthday, Dean.” 

* * * 

Cas's thoughts drifted to Dean for a moment when he woke up. Today was Dean's birthday. Cas remembered, but was unsure of whether or not that would be a big deal to him. He knew birthdays were important to some people, but the Winchesters had never been “some people.” They were soldiers; a species Cas should be able to comprehend. And yet, Cas found himself briefly wondering what Dean might spend the day doing, if it would include the foods he enjoyed or the music he loved. Would Dean spend it with Sam? With friends? Did Dean have friends? 

Cas let his thoughts float away before rubbing his eyes as he stretched then went to his cupboard and pulled a box of cheerios and some milk from his mini fridge. After he'd poured himself a decent sized bowl, he walked back to the bed sitting cross legged on it, leaning his back against the wall. 

Besides the outside buzz of city life leaking in through the windows, the apartment was quiet, and Cas could hear himself chew. He looked around the room, letting his mind wander as he ate, blanketed in solitude. Not that he minded. Cas had often thought it interesting how much resistance humans could have to being alone and sitting in the quiet. But, when Cas fell from grace, the constant sounds of “angel radio” as Dean called it, had stopped. And for the first time, Cas wasn't part of an us. He was simply an I. And the quiet wasn't bad necessarily, just different. So he sat in it often, trying to acquaint himself with his own thoughts. 

But, today he had somewhere to be. So, he finished off his bowl and went to his wardrobe, opening the doors with a creak, slowly looking inside. And there it was, surreptitiously hanging in the back behind the other clothes. Cas pulled the hanger free then hooked it on the wardrobe door, eyeing the suit. 

For all the time that Cas had worn the outfit as an angel, his grace had kept it in good repair. But even though he never found occasion to wear it anymore, even just hanging in the closet had seemed to take its toll on the luster of the fabric, leaving it more dull and mundane looking. Cas took his time as he slowly tugged the white dress shirt from the hanger and donned it for the first time in months. He pulled on the black dress pants and suit coat and then grabbed the tie. Before he put it on, he held the silk in his fingertips, letting it run through his hands as he pulled. He took a breath, then finally draped the fabric around his neck. 

Cas thought back to how he'd felt strangely grateful that his suit hadn't been stolen from his backpack along with the wallet and cash that Dean had given him when he left the bunker. In his rational mind, the fake identification and credit card he supplied him with would have been far more useful, but there was something in Cas that had a strange attachment to the outfit, even if he couldn't explain it. So, he tied his tie, glad he still had it before finishing his ensemble off with the signature beige trench coat. 

After he'd gotten dressed, Cas looked at himself in the bathroom mirror while he fixed his hair. And it almost felt like he was an angel again; he looked so much like his former self. But he brushed his teeth and slipped his shoes and socks over calloused feet, locking his door as if locking that thought away with the action. 

The day was rather nice outside, and he opened the window to let in the fresh air as he took the bus to his destination. People got in and out at various crowded bus stops for almost a half hour before Cas reached the one he needed. He hopped off, brushing shoulders with numerous random pedestrians as he did. 

The street was full for a Sunday, people rushing about to fulfill different errands, rarely giving him a glance. It gave Cas a strange sense of anonymity to be surrounded by crowds who neither knew nor cared who he was. It was like a very fluid, open sort of camouflage. Occasionally, a woman or man would glance at him with a look of sexual interest, but even those exchanges were fleeting. Cas knew by now that his body was attractive, but in public, people tended to practice a great deal more restraint than they did in the dark corners of his night life. And so, he walked unbothered, arriving at his destination on time. 

Cas stopped momentarily when he got there, looking up at the gaudy church in front of him, spires stretching heavenward like hands chopped off at the wrist while reaching for God. Cas blinked, and walked along the church's path to the door before opening it heavily. 

Inside, pews lined the walls, randomly dotted with people masked with colored patterns of light pouring through the stained glass windows. Cas looked down at one of the free benches on the side and sat close to image of the virgin Mary watching over the patrons. The bench creaked as he sat down. 

Cas didn't pick up a hymnal as the opening song began, the congregation exhaling timid notes, singing mumbled and sleepy in the early morning. 

“When sorrows like sea billows roll,” they sang as Cas listened without joining in. “Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to know, it is well, it is well, with my soul.” 

Cas looked around at the people that surrounded him, heads hanging down, reading words that he doubted had individual meaning to the people who uttered them. _What am I doing here?_ he thought, wondering what place an ex-angel and sex worker had in religion. Despite this, the congregation sang on as if they didn't notice they had blasphemy in their midst. But Cas reminded himself that this is what normal people do. They go to church and pray while sleeping with their neighbor's wife. And Cas was normal now, too, so he was here. 

After the hymn, the service droned on as Cas listened to scriptures about hell fire and damnation, mentally correcting some of the mistranslations in his head. Cas had personally known some of the saints who had written those scriptures, and it felt strange to hear them spoken of in such sacred reverence. He'd known the men well enough to spot the prophets' hypocrisies, recalling the drinking and whoring of one of them as his words of chastity rang through Cas's ears. 

And Cas listened to the man talk about demons and purgatory. The man flourished his hands heavily as he gestured to the crowd, intending, Cas supposed, to incite them with emotions akin to fear or devotion, but Cas couldn't help but think it was all very vague in a way that made you think it could be metaphorical. Like a bedtime story to scare your kids into cleaning their rooms or listening to their parents. All fantastical and unbelievable. _But hell is real,_ Cas thought as he recalled the fiery bowels of it. _And so is heaven._ And Cas couldn't decide within himself which he would prefer. 

_Purgatory with Dean,_ his mind supplemented before he could censor it. 

As the service went on, Cas found himself ready to put this experiment on the back burner when another man came up the the pulpit and began to pray. For the first time, Cas leaned forward, hands draped over the bench in front of him. He listened intently, eyes open. 

“God give us angels to watch over us,” the man prayed, “and keep us in the arms of love.” 

_You poor bastards,_ Cas thought, watching the crowd with their heads bowed and eyes closed in revery. _There's no one left to listen to you pray._

But Cas wasn't here to tell anyone the truth. Not even himself. And so, when the man finished his benediction, Cas bowed his head, letting it rest against the pew in front of him. _I'm no angel,_ he thought, and realized he didn't belong in purgatory, or heaven or hell. It wasn't about belonging anywhere, really. It was about where he didn't belong. Dean had made it clear what he required. And if Cas wasn't strong enough to be useful in any other way, he could at least give Dean what he needed, could stay away. 

“Happy Birthday, Dean,” he whispered to himself, letting his eyes shut tightly as the “amen” of a hundred people echoed in his ears. 

* * * 

Sam's day had been a long one for Dean, and surprisingly kind of fun. They'd had a movie marathon, watching Dean's favorite classics. They'd ended the night with pizza and beer (Dean had gone light on the alcohol for Sam's sake). And right now, Dean looked over at his brother who'd fallen asleep on the couch next to him, snoring lightly into one of the pillows his face was smashed into. 

Dean smiled a little, turning off the television set and clearing away some of the leftover trash from the coffee table. He grabbed a blanket, tossing it across Sam before turning out the lights and making his way back to his room. 

The day had been pretty relaxing and yet Dean found himself amped up again when he'd reached his room. He sat on his bed lacing his fingers behind his head, uncomfortable with the silence and the familiar knot in his chest. He let his hands fall to his thighs as he listened for a moment for Sam. And when he was convinced he definitely had some privacy, he took a deep breath. 

“Cas,” he said, the name coming out breathless and timid. “I know you probably haven't been getting the prayers I've been sending your way, but I have to try anyway. I want you to know I'm sorry. I want you to know it wasn't you.” 

At this point, Dean was rubbing the palms of his hands on his jeans nervously, clenching his jaw in between words. And yet, his tone became more gentle and quiet as he spoke, until the last words were a broken whisper: 

“Get your ass home, Cas.” 


	4. Dean

It was fall, and the weather was starting to turn chilly, but Cas knew now, from experience, that he'd get more clients if he showed a little skin. So, instead of wearing appropriate clothing for the weather, Cas donned a black wife beater and tight black pants. Some nights he added a bit of eyeliner to the ensemble, but tonight he kept it simple. Instead, he tousled his hair in front of the mirror, styling it with a little gel. 

Since becoming human, Cas had very little occasion to fight anymore, and he had lost some muscle mass as a result, but not much. And though his trench coat had hidden his body away, Cas had always been strong. The outfit he wore now accented this truth, even if his body displayed a more lean strength than before. 

When Cas left, it was hours past sunset and the night life had taken full root in his surroundings. Cas could hear sirens in the distance and the buzz of crowds as he passed a few bars and wound his way through the streets. He ignored the cat calls of a few drunken pedestrians, face serious as he walked on. 

In all honesty, he didn't live in the best neighborhood, so he probably wouldn't have had to walk far to find a spot to pick up a John, but he didn't like the idea of his work touching too close to where he lived. Not to mention the fact that he needed to stay clear of most areas with pimped out prostitutes because he didn't want to start a turf war or worse, be recruited. He'd been careful to avoid the latter, but in all honestly he'd always kind of seen it as an eventuality. Bosses in this line of work were both territorial and opportunistic and wouldn't like the idea of a freelancer if they'd found him out. And so, Cas waited for the day when someone would own him with a certain sense of dread as he made his way to his stop. 

When he got to the darkened corner it was already occupied by a familiar face. Cas smiled lightly as he walked toward a long legged brunette wearing an extremely revealing outfit. Cas considered her for a moment. She was quite beautiful and very young. Probably barely twenty. And very clearly a hooker. 

She smiled an endearing smile as Cas walked up to her. Cas's gaze flicked to a few small bruises he noted on her arms. _I'm not the only one they like it rough with,_ Cas noted sadly. 

“Jess,” said Cas, his voice coming out deep and gravelly. 

Jess came up to Cas wrapping her tiny frame around his torso then backing off, just letting her hands rest against the small of his back while she looked at his face. Even with her heels, she was still easily a head shorter than him. 

“Cas, baby,” she said. “I was starting to wonder if you were gonna come tonight.” 

Up close, Cas could see just how skinny Jess had become, her cheekbones prominent. Her eyes had bags under them and her pupils were dilated. _What drugs are you on right now, Jess?_ he wondered. He could also see a thick patch of makeup around her neck where he could tell she was trying to hide more bruising. Did someone try to choke her? Cas had had that done to him before, but as little as he liked it, he was sure it was far more traumatizing to Jess's tiny neck. 

He sighed, thumbing the thick patch of makeup. “Who did it?” he asked in a matter of fact tone, no hesitation in his voice. 

Jess immediately backed up, bristling and pushing him away. “God Cas,” she said, “You still don't have an ounce of tact even after all these months.” 

She genuinely looked upset and Cas immediately regretted asking her. He almost said something, but paused, knowing his compass for these kind of interactions always seemed to point him in the wrong direction when he talked, so instead he tilted his head a little, squinting his eyes as if he were confused. It had the affect that he wanted. Jess smiled, her eyes staring at him forgivingly. Cas returned the smile lightly feeling relieved. 

She sighed. “One of these days I might just tell my boss about you sharing my corner with me,” she said with devious eyes. 

Cas's chin tilted downward “We aren't attracting the same clients most of the time anyway,” he said, his face challenging her with his eyebrows raised, his voice serious and low. 

And Jess rolled her eyes. “I'm kidding, Cassie,” she said and reached down to one of her tall heels and adjusted it quickly, putting her breasts on clear display as she did. Cas looked away and Jess looked up, smirking. 

She walked to Cas seductively, her chest high and her hips swaying. Jess stepped into his personal space, tilting her chin up close to his ear. “You know,” she whispered, her breath brushing across the sensitive skin on Cas's ear, “You're quite the prude for a whore.” 

Cas furrowed his eyebrows and took a step back, his face uneasy. “Jess,” he started slowly, putting his hands deep in his pockets. He looked up at a streetlight unsure of what to say or how to say it. “I—” 

But he didn't have to finish, because Jess smiled a sad smile, understanding as she backed away heels clicking loudly against the cement, giving Cas some space. She adjusted her skirt, looking down at it, her jaw tight. “Oh Cas,” she said glancing a peek up at him through thick lashes. She was smiling, but still looked disappointed when she finally said “You're like a fucking unicorn, you know that?” 

And Cas couldn't help but smile. It had been a long time since Meg had called him her unicorn, but he liked the memory anyway, even if he wasn't sure what it meant. But in this case, he thought he knew. He'd known for awhile how Jess felt. It had taken him a few months to pick up on her flirting, but when he did, he felt bad. Under all the bravado, Jess was a sweet girl who was lost and lonely. He looked at her now as she brushed the hair out of her eyes, and he saw the genuine sadness there. 

So Cas came up and hugged her close to him, feeling the warmth of her tiny body permeating through his thin shirt to his chest. He didn't say anything, but he knew Jess understood. After a moment, she pushed him away saying something about the clients driving off with him that close and they both found their spots to start the evening. And fifteen minutes later, he watched as Jess leaned in the window of a dark car with tinted windows before getting in and leaving Cas alone on the corner. He sighed, hoping tonight's John would be gentle with her, before he was pulled back into the present by a car pulling up. 

The window rolled down, and suddenly, Cas was staring at a blonde haired, green eyed man looking back at him. Cas blinked, leaning in further, his heart beating quickly. _Dean?_ his mind questioned immediately. And for a moment, his heart lifted, until the man spoke: 

“How much for a fuck?” came the voice, sounding nothing like Dean. 

Cas cleared his throat, trying to slow down his heart rate, licking his lips. “Hundred and twenty,” said Cas, trying to keep his composure as he stared into the green eyes that were making him feel so on edge. And Cas swallowed, trying to keep himself in the moment. Trying to keep his mind from drifting away to a long black car with classic rock belting from the windows and the smell of leather and fast food. 

“Get in,” the voice said, and just like that, Cas was back. He opened the door with a screech and sat next to his next paycheck, reality taking hold. 

After a minute, Cas felt the man's palm make its way to Cas's thigh as he drove, rubbing in small increments, closer and closer to his crotch. He eyed the man's hand curiously, noting the heat radiating through the fabric. Cas's breath hitched a little as the man's hand rubbed deeper. He eyed the hand curiously, wondering why this was having such an affect on him. After a few minutes, the man pulled his hand away from Cas, placing both hands on the steering wheel as he pulled into a cheap motel. 

“It's an extra fifty to take me to a room,” Cas said flatly, realizing he was starting to feel unusually apprehensive. 

The man looked at him with lust filled eyes raking over Cas's tight black wife beater seeming not to notice the his uneasiness. 

“I'm good for it,” the man breathed. And with that, he leaned over to Cas, pulling him into a kiss. Cas hesitated before kissing him back, then pulled the man in deeper to try and hide his delay. When they pulled back, the ruse seemed to work as the man's eyes were lit with desire. Cas licked the minty taste of the man's mouth off his lips. He clearly had good hygiene which Cas vaguely let himself be glad for. 

When he looked up again, he realized the man was staring at him.“Those eyes,” the man said, inhaling sharply. In a moment, he had his hand on Cas's thigh again, sliding over to rub Cas's crotch through his pants. Cas's cock responded to the attention and the man moaned so quietly, Cas almost missed it before he pulled his hand back. 

“Let's go,” he said, opening his door and gesturing Cas to follow with a tilt of his head. 

The walk to the motel room was awkward as they climbed the steps quietly enough that Cas could hear their shoes scraping against the cement as they ascended. The yellow florescent lights flicked as they walked past as if heralding their walk. Cas could smell the remnants of smoke in the air, but this John didn't taste like a smoker, so Cas wasn't surprised when they reached a non-smoking room. Cas looked at the man's face again, unsettled by the resemblance to Dean. He wasn't as classically handsome as Dean, but they shared enough similar features to give Cas the chills. 

Cas had been doing this for months now, the number of men he'd slept with growing steadily, and Cas wasn't sure he'd ever felt as nervous as he did right now as he watched the man unlocking the motel room door. It opened with a click, revealing a pitch black room. The man didn't even bother to turn on the light as he walked to the bedside, leaving Cas in the door frame. Cas waited, heart thumping in his ears as he watched the man's silhouette appear in the darkness as he turned on the lamp by the bed. 

He motioned for Cas to come in and he complied with unsteady steps. The single lamp was dim and lit the room poorly as Cas noted the long shadows that stretched into blackness in the corners. There was a large bed in the middle of the room and the man sat in a chair off to the side of it. 

“C'mere baby, he said, and Cas did, leaning down to kiss the man again. When he pulled away, the man sighed. 

And Cas started to work on auto pilot again, as “Where would you like me?” fell from his lips. 

Not surprisingly, the idea of Cas catering to his whims resulted in the man's eyes flashing with arousal and excitement. His legs pulled apart, Cas noting the semi he was sporting under the zipper of his jeans. 

“Get undressed,” said the man, his voice coming out in deep waves. And so, Cas started pulling at the fabric of his shirt, keeping eye contact with the man, staring deeply into his light green eyes. When he lifted his shirt over his head revealing tight ab muscles underneath, he saw the man's finger tracing his bottom lip, his mouth slightly open as he watched. Cas kicked off his shoes and socks before reaching down to the button on his pants popping it free as the man hissed from his chair. He unzipped his pants and wiggled free. When he worked, Cas wore black lace booty shorts instead of boxers and when his pants fell to the ground, he could see the intoxicated look the man was giving his crotch at the sight. Cas laced his thumbs inside of them ready to pull them off when the man stopped him. 

“Wait,” he said, his voice heavy, “leave them on.” 

Cas let his hands fall to the side as the man stood, freeing himself from both shirt and jeans revealing a toned body underneath. Cas's brows furrowed as he thought how similar this man's build was to Dean, and he immediately felt his stomach flutter uncomfortably at the thought. 

But, before he could dwell on it, the man was placing his hand on Cas's chest, pushing him forcefully on the bed. Cas fell onto his back, bouncing a little on the mattress as the man climbed on top of him. Slowly, he lowered himself to Cas's crotch starting to grind them together, his breathing increasing at the friction. He lowered the rest of his body to Cas's letting their chests touch, nipples brushing past each other, causing Cas to let his eyes flutter shut at the sensation. In fact, the whole thing was pleasant in frustrating kind of way, and Cas found himself quickly getting carried away in it, which, despite his profession, hardly ever happened. In fact, most of the men he was with prided themselves off of taking what they wanted, brutally and forcefully. But this, _I could get used to this,_ Cas thought as a small moan unintentionally escaped his mouth. 

Then, the man was kissing up and down Cas's torso, licking at his nipples, making him squirm. _What is happening right now?_ Cas vaguely thought, as the man pulled shaky breaths from Cas, kissing and licking up his neck before biting at one of his earlobes, still grinding their erections together forcefully. 

“Turn over,” the man whispered into Cas's ear seductively. And Cas rolled over onto his stomach, pulling his knees in, lifting his ass into the air. The man rubbed his hands lightly across Cas's round cheeks before yanking Cas's shorts down forcefully, causing Cas to inhale at the sudden onslaught of cold air. He lifted his knees up one at a time as the man removed his lacey shorts letting them drop to the ground. 

“In my pants,” Cas choked, “condom. Lube.” 

He felt the bed raise a little with a creak as the man left to get the articles, leaving Cas exposed and still slightly shaking with his ass in the air. 

When the man returned, Cas looked back at him and saw that he was naked, sporting a full, hard erection. Cas licked his lips at the sight. He lowered his head to his hands, closing his eyes as he felt the man's fingers, wet with lube start to circle his hole. 

“Beautiful,” he thought he heard the man whisper, but he didn't have time to think about it for too long, because in a moment, the man's fingers were inside him, scissoring him apart, the sensation causing cas to groan. He thought he could hear the man's smile when he said “That's right baby, open up for me.” 

It felt like forever, and not long enough before the man removed his fingers from his hole. Cas ached at the absence before he felt the man line himself up. And, slowly he heard him groan as he pushed inside Cas's still tight hole, bottoming out after a moment. Cas opened his eyes, looking at his hands as he felt himself fall into the sensation of fullness. Then, the man started to move and Cas closed his eyes again, muttering an “ah,” without his body's permission. 

The man sped up, and suddenly Cas felt him hit against his prostate and he tightened as the sensation rippled through his body. The man must have recognized Cas's reaction because he began hitting it again. And then again. And again, speeding up as he slammed into him causing Cas to moan unrestrained now, seeing stars against the back of his eyelids. 

“Ah,” he breathed again, getting louder, “Yes. Yes.” 

And with one more thrust, he felt the man jizzing in his hole, leaning his chest against Cas's back as he breathed. And Cas worked himself until he came, too, onto the bed, his eyes seeing red as he screamed a name, loudly echoing off of the walls of the motel room: 

“Dean.” 


	5. Inner Dialogue

Dean swung with precise aim, chopping off the vamp's head. He watched it all as if in slow motion as the blade sliced through the thin flesh at the neck like bread, then feeling the miniscule resistance and slowing as it worked through the bone. The body fell in a pile at his feet with the head next to it, wild eyes staring up at Dean. And Dean felt the vibrations of the kill running up his spine giving him a moment of clarity. 

But the affect didn't last. Dean swallowed as he assessed himself: the warm blood soaked into the sleeve of his arm which was starting to cool and his heart rate slowing as the adrenaline levels began to descend inside his body. He wiped his clean hand on his cheek streaking blood droplets in stripes across his palm and, he assumed, his face. He looked around for any more monsters and found himself feeling the uncomfortable void that fills the completion of a task. The moment where the pull and drive of purpose disappears and all that's left is the dull buzzing inside the back of his head. The need for more. 

Just when the emptiness began to fill him up, Sam walked back into the room, looking just as bloody and tired as Dean. And suddenly, Dean could breathe again, silently thanking his brother for being there. For pulling him away from himself. 

Sam smiled a tired, half smile as he walked in and immediately they began taking care of the bodies quietly with the occasional grunt as they hefted the heavy weight of the monsters. It took a considerable amount of time and when the two men were done, they were covered in blood and sweat, making their way to the impala. 

The ride back took two days and Dean tried to distract himself with the sounds of music while Sam was awake. After the first day they decided to skip the motel room and drive straight through. And, when the night shift came and it was his turn at the wheel, Dean found himself with too much time on his hands. Too much time to think. Too much time to think about Cas. 

It had been months with no word, and Dean wasn't getting any better at curbing the anxiety and guilt that crept in when he thought about the angel. _Ex angel,_ his brain corrected, adding to his distress. The other angels wanted Cas's head on a platter and Cas didn't even have his grace. Dean rubbed at his forehead with his free hand, feeling the familiar tightness creeping into his chest. 

Not that he was giving up. In fact, unbeknownst to Sam, Dean spent hours every night on his laptop searching for articles through online directories and police databases for Cas with zero results. It had been a grueling ten months and Dean didn't want Sam to understand how Cas's disappearance was affecting him. In fact, he wasn't sure he understood it himself. Since Sam and Dean had been children, their legacy had been one of loss: Mary, John, Joe, Ellen, Ash. . . Bobby. Dean's mind shied away from tugging out more names from his memory bank. And with that kind of history, Dean thought he could just add Cas to the tally of constant grief he held in a knot in his stomach, burning at him while he survived through anger and violence. And, to be fair, he _was_ using those coping methods. Today had shown him that. But there was something more about this. Cas being gone made him feel a loss of control, like he was in a constant state of freefall and couldn't find his ground. It felt wrong and confusing, and Dean had no idea how to handle it, or why it was happening. And so he didn't talk to his brother about it, hoping for a long time that he could find his way back on his own. Or that Cas could. But he didn't. And it truly did feel like falling the moment he convinced himself to finally start looking for a body. It had taken him these full ten months to even look for Cas in mortuary records, and the night he finally did, he'd thrown up twice before he'd even started drinking enough for Sam to find him wasted at the bar. 

And now there was too much time to think. Too many long stretches of road for him to feel guilty. So he flipped on the music, waking Sam up with a jolt and forced a fake laugh at his brother as if he'd done it as a prank, and not to snuff out the tempest of his own mind. 

* * * 

When Dean and Sam arrived home the sun was just starting to come up, the landscape around them brushed with morning frost. Dean pulled the impala into the bunker's parking garage turning off the engine, his ears feeling lighter with the loss of its constant sound for the last few days. He pulled himself out of the car, stretching his legs and back with a groan. 

He could hear Sam behind him doing the same thing when suddenly his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out with a small yawn and looked at the number. _It's unkown,_ he thought. _It's unkown and maybe it's Cas._ And despite the fact that he'd had the thought before with no success, his heart beat faster anyway, hopeful as he pressed the answer button, the phone flying to his ear. 

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice unintentionally expectant. 

There was a brief pause before “What's up bitches?” came clearly through the speakers. Dean smiled a small smile before putting the phone on speaker. 

“Hey Charlie,” he said, his voice staring to warm. 

And Sam was smiling too, as he yelled out an enthusiastic “Hey!” from the other side of the car. 

Dean shut his door loudly, starting to make his way through the parking garage to the door to the bunker with Sam trailing behind. He pushed the door open, flipping on the lights to the hallway, both men's boots tromping in succession on the floor. 

“What's up, Charlie?” Dean asked, genuinely glad to hear her voice, letting it drown out the disappointment that it wasn't Cas. Again. 

“Well,” said Charlie hesitantly, and suddenly Dean was hearing double. He flicked his eyes up immediately, looking around, and when his head poked into the next room, the light flicked on revealing Charlie with a sheepish smile on her lips. 

“Hey, Dean,” she said, her voice echoing a moment later into Dean's phone. 

Dean looked at her, eyes squinting as he walked over to give her a hug. “How the hell did you get in here?” he asked, pulling her close to him. 

Then he looked at Sam and saw it in his face. Sam shrugged in response. “I thought we could use a few Charlie filled days,” he said, grinning. With that, his brother walked over to the small red head, pulling her into a tight embrace. 

In reply, Dean nodded with his hands in his pockets, looking at the other two people in the room with an amused expression. “Ok, then,” he said, “welcome to the mad house.” 


	6. Graveyards

Cas finally reached his apartment, hand raised to put his key in the door when he stopped and swallowed. His exposed skin itched in the humid air and he realized he was holding his breath. Suddenly, he felt aware of every notch of spine in his back as the muscles contracted around the vertebrae, arresting his sense of motion and freedom. His body felt caged and restrained while his mind floated unregulated and renegade. Cas tried to pull his thoughts back into himself but instead they twisted around the memory of the filthy motel room and the feel of Dean's name as it had moved through his mouth in the heat of orgasm. With another man. And it all felt wrong. Intense and wrong. 

Cas managed to lift his hand letting it rest on the door frame as he caught his breath. He couldn't bring himself to go inside. Instead, he tapped the key on the wood a few times then turned on his heel to go find Jess, because as out of character as it was for him, Cas really needed to not be alone right now. 

And, soon enough, he'd rushed back to the corner and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw a woman's silhouette against the shadowy bricks of a nearby building, looking surreal and somewhat cartoonish in the dark. He forced himself to slow down as he walked toward her. 

“Jess,” he said as her face began coming into view. 

Cas saw that Jess's head was leaning back against the bricks tiredly as she looked up and took a thick drag of a cigarette. 

“Heya Cassie,” she said, her voice thin and wavering. And Cas knew something was wrong before his eyes adjusted to the dim quality of light. Felt the eerie chill in her words, even if they mimicked her usual greetings. 

They'd had this conversation before. Done this dance, and Cas quickly surmised what was going on. He pursed his lips. “How bad?” he asked, forcing his tone to stay calm as he took a few more steps forward. And when Cas reached Jess, the shiny hue of moonlight hit her face as she turned to him. 

Cas reached a hand forward and lifted up Jess's chin lightly to examine the black-blue bruise ringing her left eye. Then, he let go with a sad expression, nodding. “He hit you anywhere else?” Cas asked, his tone mimicking a conversation about the weather rather than his friend's abuse. But what could he say, really? _Don't do this to yourself, Jess? Get out? Don't be like me?_ Cas rubbed at the back of his neck, exhaling. He may not be an expert at understanding people, but if there was one thing Cas learned from his time around humanity its that people don't make decisions because something is or isn't good for them. As palpable as the threat to Jess's body was, it was just a byproduct of the inner turmoil of her mind. And Cas could relate. So, he didn't say anything. Didn't try to fix the tired human in front of him any more than he tried to resuscitate his own sense of self worth. Because broken things don't fix other broken things, even if they wish they could. Instead, they flock together in the graveyard of bad decisions and punish themselves while shooting each other pitying looks. And he hated it. Hated having a front row seat to her destruction and knowing all along that Jess was a mirror for him. 

Jess shook her head “no” in a tiny motion in response to Cas's earlier question. She took another drag of her smoke while she lifted her toe and ground the spike of one of her heels into the sidewalk. She turned to look at Cas, keeping the back of her head glued to the bricks as she did. Suddenly, she let herself slide against the wall, sinking to the ground, sighing. And Cas found himself joining her, both of them sitting on the dusty cement, side by side while sirens whined in the distance. 

Cas found that in the lull of dialogue, thoughts of Dean popped up again momentarily. Cas tried to convince his mind to release him from the constant loop of skin and hands moving through his consciousness drowning him in a confusing cocoon of Dean and sex, leaving him cold and shaking like the after affects of ingesting venom. 

But he let the feeling sink to the back of his mind again as Cas watched as Jess's hand made its way to her forehead. She started rubbing the bridge of her nose with her thumb and pinky while the cigarette bounced in-between. She stopped then flicked off the bits of ash that had fallen to her skirt with her free hand. 

“Do you ever wish you could start over?” she asked, her eyes addressing the moon. 

And Cas internalized the question. He had done more to regret in the last five years than most people had in a lifetime and the idea of a fresh slate was immediately intoxicating to him. 

“All the time,” Cas said, eyes finding their way to the ground as he blinked against the shadows he found there. 

Jess shifted on the ground next to him, crossing one ankle on top of the other, the glossy finish of her heel shining back at him. 

They sat quietly for a moment, Cas relishing in the idea presented in front of him. To start over. To be freed from the bad decisions he'd made that had pushed him here. To free himself of the guilt from all the times he'd hurt Dean, heaven, his family and himself. How long would his list need to get before he realized he was toxic? Dean had. But life didn't have a reset button, did it? 

Cas ran his hands through his hair, trying to empathize with Jess as he looked at her black eye. _I deserve this,_ he acknowledged as he thought through the choices that had led him here. _But Jess doesn't_. Her greatest sin was to drown out the already cold world with illegal substances. Self-sabotaging? Sure. But nothing next to Cas's crimes. The damage of her mistakes was confined to her own self-abuse, whereas Cas managed to hurt other people. Hurt Dean. 

But Jess continued without realization of Cas's internal monologue: “It's just,” she wondered out loud, taking another pull of her cigarette. “What would it be worth to start over?” she asked. 

And at that moment her face aged into someone older. Someone who had grown tired of carrying the weight of her own thoughts. Cas could clearly see the desperation and it worried him. Jess closed her eyes as if to shut out Cas's gaze. 

Then, quietly, and very tentatively, she added “would it be worth your soul?” 

And all at once, Jess had Cas's full attention. He found himself sitting up straighter, repeating her question in his mind to make sure he'd heard her correctly. 

“Your soul?” he asked, voice peaking at the word. 

She opened her eyes and they were making eye contact, faces close, the moment feeling confined. 

He swallowed. “Why would you use that word?” 

Cas's heart beat began to thump in burdened intervals, his chest contracting. 

“Jess,” he said, his voice more demanding “Why would you use the word soul?” he asked again. 

And Jess didn't answer. She didn't have to, because Cas saw the subsequent flash of shame as he questioned her. He felt the immediate anxiety raise in his chest, and he closed his eyes as the cold realization hit him; It wasn't metaphorical. Jess was contemplating selling her soul. 


	7. The problem

It was midnight and Dean was on the couch, feet laying heavily against the armrest as he played with Charlie's ipad. She'd suggested he try a ghost hunting video game. Dean had scoffed at the proposal supplying her with a heavy dose of sarcasm and something about getting enough of that in real life, and yet, an hour had flown by and he was still channeling his game's avatar deep into haunted house after haunted house. 

He'd turned down the eerie music a bit, but it still played softly through the speakers, unnatural tones drifting to his ears along with the staggered breathing of his video game persona. The walls on the screen became tighter, closing in on his player, the music heavier, signaling he was about to be accosted by a ghost. Not that he didn't know it was coming. This was the fifth time he'd tried to beat this level. Dean readied his hand for attack and on cue a little girl turned the corner, eyes down, walking towards him with a pale yellow dress. 

“Don't look at it,” she whispered, her bare feet walking along the old wooden boards of the house. 

His avatar began breathing heavier, adding to the drama of the moment while the echoing sounds of a child's music box played in the background. 

“Don't look at it,” the little girl said again. 

Dean used his finger to drag a weapon into his character's hand, readying himself for the attack. And suddenly, the girl looked up, pictures of her skull flashing in and out of the image on her face. She turned grotesque, her form resembling death and decay as her voice lowered, sounding more like roaring and hissing than an actual human. 

“I told you not to look!” said the creature, and Dean tried to defend himself but he was too slow. In a flash, the ghost screamed and flew across the hallway attacking Dean's avatar before it ended with the gory eruption of blood spatter on the wall. 

“Game Over” blinked across the screen. 

“Damn it,” said Dean, sitting up and chucking the ipad on the couch, rubbing his overworked eyes. He looked at the clock immediately cursing the time he'd lost playing Charlie's stupid game. 

He turned the ipad off and stood up, stretching, his back protesting and stiff. In the distance, Dean could hear Sam and Charlie's muffled voices drifting from the kitchen. They'd been in there since he started his video game and Dean had taken little notice. Not that he wasn't happy Charlie was here. Her presence had a distracting, if not calming affect on him. Besides, it had been awhile since they'd spent time with her without some kind of hunt or problem to solve. 

Dean sighed. But that was just it, wasn't it? There _was_ a problem to solve. And it was him. And so, when he got up and walked into the kitchen, he wasn't surprised to hear hushed voices quickly cease when Sam and Charlie took notice of him. The two of them had a board game laid out on the table, but from the looks of it, it had been long neglected as they talked. Most likely about him. 

Dean sighed. “Don't stop on my account,” he said, grabbing a beer from the fridge and sitting down at the table with them. He popped off the lid with a flourish and took a swig. 

He looked back and forth between his brother and their friend as Charlie pursed her lips awkwardly and Sam looked at the ceiling. “So, what did we decide, huh?” Dean said in an sharp tone. “You guys gonna stage an intervention?” The words came out with a biting edge Dean wasn't sure if he intended it or not. 

Charlie furrowed her eyebrows. “Don't be an ass,” she said, and Dean saw Sam smirking in the corner of his eye. 

But Dean sat up straighter, looking her more firmly in the eyes. “I'm not an idiot. You think I haven't noticed Sam's worried looks? I know why he called you.” 

When the table fell silent, Dean rubbed his thumb along the label of his beer, smearing the droplets of condensation across the cursive letters. He swallowed, then leaned back in his chair, turning to Sam. 

“Look,” he started, trying to keep his voice more neutral now. “I know I've been acting a little bit,” he paused, “unlike myself lately.” He could feel Charlie looking at him with a sympathetic face and he avoided her gaze, focusing solely on Sam for the moment. Although, his brother's expression wasn't necessarily much better. 

Still, he plowed on, “But I've got it under control. I'm a little stressed out, that's all. The job can be intense,” he said the last part with a shrug as an attempt to make it all seem casual. And then he waited for Sam and Charlie's reactions. He bullied them with a look until he saw them both let it go with a nod. Dean knew the conversation was far from over, but this round, at least, was at an end. 

“Well,” Sam said, standing. “I'm tired.” Sam pushed in his chair with a quick glance at Dean before telling Charlie he was glad to have her, and Dean watched him disappear around the corner in the hallway. 

Charlie's fingers drummed nervously on the table for a moment as she eyed wall awkwardly. Then, finally, she nodded at Dean's beer. 

“You gonna get me one, or not?” she asked, tilting her head to the side, the expression very Cas-like. 

Dean sighed, pushing his chair out with a loud, scraping sound and made his way to the fridge. He opened Charlie's beer for her before dropping it in front of her. She lifted her eyebrows a few times at him deviously as she took a sip before letting it fall back to the table. 

“Not my regular brand,” she said, turning the bottle to see the label, “but it'll do the trick.” 

Dean smiled despite himself and his sour mood. Charlie had a way of doing that to him. “It'll get you nice and buzzed after a few, if that's what you're looking for,” he said, smiling. 

Charlie unzipped her hoodie, throwing it across the back of her chair then shot Dean a challenging look. “Alright, Winchester,” she said, “I'm game. But if we're gonna get drunk together, there's something I want to do first.” 

Charlie was giving Dean a mischievous look and he shot an equally questioning one her way. 

“What exactly did you have in mind?” Dean asked. 

* * * 

The familiar piercing sound of a gun being fired seeped through Dean's ear muffs. He looked over Charlie's shoulder to the end of the long cement tunnel in front of them. Twenty feet ahead, the black and white paper silhouette of a human form had a small hole shot through the ear accompanied by three earlier shots to the nose, chest area and one shot just above the head. 

Dean nodded. “Not bad,” he said. 

Charlie tilted her head to look back at him. “What?” she yelled, but the question was soft by the time it reached Dean's ears. 

“You're pretty good!” he yelled louder. At that, Charlie smiled proudly, setting the gun down on the counter in front of her, flipping the safety on. She then pulled off her ear protection, and Dean did the same. 

“I can't believe this place has a shooting range,” she said, grinning. Dean nodded, taking stock of the room. The bunker really did have everything. But this room was one of Dean's personal favorites. Not that he needed the practice. It was just that having an indoor shooting range proved to be an effective stress reliever. Consequently, he'd been down here more frequently, lately, silently thanking the architects of the bunker that they'd managed to soundproof the entire room from the rest of the house. Dean was sure Sam wouldn't have approved of his two a.m. shooting sessions. But, he had to admit, it was fun taking someone else down here with him, considering Sam had shown little interest in anything but the books inside the bunker. 

“Yeah,” Dean said, leaning his back against the wall opposite Charlie, “this place definitely has its perks.” 

Charlie nodded, then suddenly, she was shuffling one foot against the floor, biting on her lip. 

_Here it comes,_ thought Dean. 

When Charlie looked back up, Dean expected another round of worried remarks about his health or drinking habits. But instead, her eyes portrayed pure, honest sincerity as she said: “I'm sorry.” 

Dean felt his voice catch in his throat. “Sorry for what?” he said. Then, a little more softly, “Look, Charlie, I was the one being an ass, earlier, not you. Sam's just been a little mother hen on me lately, and I get a bit touchy.” 

But Charlie was shaking her head, brows furrowed. “Not that,” she said. Then, her voice was Careful as she let “About Cas. . .” slip from her mouth. 

Dean felt his body go rigid at the mention of the angel, and it frustrated him that even after ten months, Cas's name brought up such strong reactions in him. 

“Yeah, well,” Dean said, clearing his throat against the emotions threatening to take hold of him. “It's not like we haven't lost our fare share of friends. . .” but his voice trailed off as Charlie's arms wrapped around him in a sudden hug, her short frame encasing his torso. It was awkward at first, but soon Dean let himself relax into it. 

But, after a moment, Dean was disentangling himself from her, pushing away lightly. He gave her a sly smile before putting his ear protection back on and lifting up the gun. 

“Alright, nerd,” he said over his shoulder, “Let me show you how it's done.” And with that, he discharged five perfect head shots into the paper. 


	8. Collision

“I can't be here, Cas” said Jess, looking around the hallway nervously. Cas barely acknowledged her remark as he led her by the elbow to his apartment door, unlocking it quickly with his free hand, keeping hold of Jess with the other. They shuffled awkwardly that way into his door frame as he flipped on the light. 

Cas caught a quick glimpse of Jess, her eyes glossed with confusion. And Cas knew that if the situation called for anything right now, it was someone who understood human psychology and how to broach the subject with delicacy. But instead, she had Cas. 

“Why am I here?” Jess said, her voice gaining intensity, small surges of anxiety seeping into her tone. “I need to get back to my shift. If Caesar finds out. . .” _Ceasar?_ Cas questioned to himself briefly. _Oh, right, her pimp._

“You can take him my fares from tonight,” he said distractedly, shoving a thick wad of bills into her hands as he finally let her go. Her mouth fell open in surprise as he nudged her inside his apartment and shut the door door behind them, locking it. 

Cas ignored Jess as he immediately started rummaging through his cupboards, pulling out cans of food, plunking them haphazardly on the counter. Finally, in a cupboard too high for him to see, Cas felt his hand grip the smooth, rounded surface of the container of salt. He took it out, pulling the little metal nozzle free from the top of the cylinder with a muffled “pop.” 

He had started pouring a thin line of salt, hands steady as the silty waterfall tumbled onto the dark wood of his window seal when he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. 

“Cas, what are you doing?” Jess's concerned voice came, as she squeezed. “You're really freaking me out, can you just stop for a minute? Tell me what the hell is going on.” 

Cas paused, glancing at Jess, his face controlled in the same way it had been for the last thirty minutes while he'd brought her here. He blinked, unconsciously tipping the container of salt, letting some of it slip onto their shoes before he corrected his grip. Neither of them glanced down at the mess. 

“Look, I trust you, Cas, but saying 'You need to come with me,' then dragging me to your apartment without another word of explanation would look a little serial-killer-ish if I didn't know you better, so I'm going to say it again; Tell me what the fuck is going on.” 

Cas looked into Jess's stormy blue eyes, unblinking. He hesitated, the moment stretching longer before he spoke. 

Finally, he said, “I think you already know.” Then, before she could protest, Cas let one word fall heavily and pointedly from his mouth: “Demons.” 

Jess pulled her head back slightly at his words, blinking rapidly. Her face paled to an ashy tone as her breath increased. 

“Cas,” Jess said, carefully. “What—? Did you just say. . . demons?” her voice cracked on the word 

And suddenly, Cas found himself rubbing at one eye with his palm, frustrated. A part of him knew he needed to handle this carefully, that most people had the luxury of viewing the world in terms of fantasy vs fiction, even if they'd looked the culmination of the two in the face. If Jess was contemplating making a deal, she'd seen a demon. But, having an experience laid open for dissection with a third party tends to make it feel more real, more tangible. In fact, Cas had known of people who'd sold their souls without even realizing it. It often amazed Cas how well humans could lie to themselves to ensure that the fantastical made sense. “Yes,” he said quietly and slowly. “Demons.” 

Cas leaned back. He wrapped his fingers around the window ledge, stray grains of salt sticking to his palms. “But you already knew that, didn't you?” he said, eying her knowingly. She looked up at him, abandoning her usual bold demeanor, and suddenly she looked so young staring back at him, her bottom lip giving off a tiny trembling motion as a tear fell down her face. 

“Fuck,” she said, biting her lip, looking away. Then, more quietly, as if to herself: “He wasn't lying, was he?” Cas assumed she meant the demon. 

Cas nodded, pushing himself to a standing position, then made his way to the door to finish his work. When the whole place was sealed in, Cas set the salt container on the counter softly, making his way back to Jess who had found her way to Cas's bed and was sitting on the edge of it, staring at a spot on the floor. Cas joined her. 

As he sat, Cas found that now that they were inside his apartment standing inside a fresh confinement of salt, he felt calmer. Less exposed. He laid a pacifying hand on his friend's back, whispering a quiet “Jess?” to her. She peeked out from her hands at him, eyes ringed with the smudges of her mascara, blending in with the dark canvas of her black eye. 

“Cas,” Jess answered, as she tucked her hair back behind both ears then let her hands rest on the back of her neck. “How did you even know?” she breathed. 

Cas blinked, unsure of where to begin, so instead, he removed his hand from her back, placing it in his lap lightly. “Why don't you tell me what happened,” he suggested instead, diverting her question. 

Jess propped her elbow on one of her knees. She looked out of one of Cas's windows but didn't speak. Cas waited, letting the silence blanket them as he listened to her staggered breathing gradually slow down and he watched her shoulders relax. Finally, she sat up, seeming to have gained some sense of composure. 

“Ok,” she said, her voice breathy and serious. 

* * * 

Cas had never had anyone fall asleep in his arms before, and he found the sensation strange as he breathed in the small strands of Jess's hair near his face. Her body was small and uncomfortable next to him as if at any moment she might break if he shifted the wrong way. So, he tried to stay still, attempting unsuccessfully to fall asleep. 

They had left the bathroom light on in Cas's apartment, leaving the door open a crack like a child's night light and neither one of them had spoken about why. Cas wasn't even sure why he'd done it. It wasn't driven by fear. Until recently, Cas had never known a world that wasn't permeated with devils, angels and the grandiose figures of nightmares. Demons weren't the unknown entities lurking in the closet, they were the unfortunate byproduct of a war-ridden existence. No, it wasn't fear that plagued Cas, but his thoughts were troubled as he surveyed the apartment that he had never invited anyone over to until tonight. The room that had gone from sanctuary to panic room in a matter of minutes, and he almost felt violated in a way. Not that he would have made a different choice—Jess was one of the only people left that really and truly cared about Cas and he would do whatever he could to help her, but somehow, bringing her here felt unsettling. 

But, as he viewed his sleeping friend, he realized just how vulnerable she looked in his arms, her hands unconsciously fisting the edge of his shirt as if using it as a focal point to try and stop her world from spinning. _I can't remember how to make it stop, either_ he thought to her, remembering how simple his mind had been as an angel. Before the apocalypse. Before Dean. Before becoming human. 

And yet, he'd become accustomed to his life here. Not necessarily happy, although, what did he know of the concept, anyway? Joy had been a superfluous emotion for an angel although perhaps a little less elusive for him since becoming human. He'd felt relieved to have food. Comforted by warmth. Glad to have a friend in Jess. Perhaps that was happy? Or perhaps he was at least beginning to be content with the idea that things would be predictable for him. But that had clearly ended tonight the moment he'd been fucked by a green-eyed John and been met, literally, with the demons of his past. And he wasn't sure he liked the idea of his old and new lives converging. Which is probably why, when Jess talked about her courtship by a demon, he'd provided vague answers as to how he knew so much about the subject. He'd explained the purpose of the salt and she'd told him about the Demon grooming her. Cas had breathed a sigh of relief when realized the Demon was still warming up to the contract, leaving Jess's soul intact. But what they hadn't decided about was what to do next. Demon's were more relentless than pimps, and they couldn't hole up in Cas's salted apartment forever. But Cas was human now. And he wasn't Dean, which meant he wasn't sure he stood a chance. 

Cas looked down at Jess, though, frustration filling his senses as he looked over her black eye. Of course he would help. He'd die if he had to. After all, he'd been willing to die for less worthy causes his entire existence. 

Cas sighed, lightly twisting his body trying to disentangle himself from his friend without waking her up. Suddenly, the room felt stifling, and he needed some fresh air. He walked, aware of every creaking footstep as he made his way to the window. Careful not to move the salt, Cas pushed open the window, a small burst of cool breeze brushing across his hands as he did. He leaned over, letting the air bathe his face in the cool of nighttime, his lungs finally feeling the relief of being able to breathe fully for the first time that night. 

After a minute, Cas went back to the bed, leaving the window open and laid next to Jess again. In her sleep she reached out to him, and Cas let her draw him near again. And he closed his eyes, letting himself drift off as the temperature slowly dropped. And Cas found himself, once again, drowning in disturbing thoughts of the man that looked like Dean. 


	9. Soldier Boy

It was absolutely freezing when Cas woke up the next morning. Jess was asleep next to him. Still. It made Cas wonder if she normally got the rest she needed. If it was the safety of Cas's apartment that let her relax, he was glad, at least, for that. Even if it was an illusion. Cas didn't feel safe, because they weren't. The sun was up, stretching hungry fingers of light into the apartment, rousing earth's life to continue. And it was time to figure out what to do. 

Cas got up and went to his closet, pulling out the maroon hoodie he'd stolen from the laundromat when he'd been homeless. He shuffled both arms into the thinning sleeves, zipping it up distractedly before moving to the window. He'd just put his hands on the top of the frame, ready to close it when he froze. 

His eyes flicked down to the wooden window seal, the light-bleached wood warping with age. Immediately, he noticed a small pile of salt on the floor next to his feet where the wind had blown it free. And the line was broken. Immediately, Cas spun to find the salt container, panic rising in his chest, hands clenching. But it was too late. As he turned, he was met with a man's face close to his. 

Time suspended for a moment as Cas refused to blink against the eyes that stared back at him through a curtain of glossy black. It had been so long since he'd seen a Demon, let alone looked one in the eyes like this. It felt like a lifetime. And suddenly, the last ten months were far away from him, as if he'd traded in the fiction of humanity for a large dose of reality. Did he think he could avoid this world forever, holed up in his small life of money, sex and the safety of his own apartment? And somewhere, deep inside of him, Cas heard a strangled, whispered “yes.” As much as he had felt unhappy with his life now, he hadn't tried to change it. Hadn't tried to become a hunter. He'd buried his past under the floorboards and tried to forget it. 

The man in front of him had blonde, disheveled hair, and he wore an equally unimpressive suit. But the vessel he'd chosen clearly had a sense of charisma to it as his facial expression wielded power and authority. _Is this what it was like to look me in the eye as an angel?_ Cas wondered, _Exuding power and confidence._ He pushed the thought aside. 

Though Cas had decided against pulling his angel blade out from under the floors last night, he regretted the decision as the demon took a few slow, deliberate steps around Cas, surveying him. Cas was unsure if he could get to his weapon in time and he doubted he could overpower a demon. And then there was the strange fact that the man could have clearly attacked them when they were asleep, but he didn't. _Why?_ Cas thought. There must have been a reason why. So Cas waited, staring. 

The cold air continued to hit Cas's back, 'causing him to involuntarily shudder a little. The demon suddenly stopped as his eyes flicked back to a normal brown color. Then he laughed, mouth stretching wide, shaking his head. 

Behind him, he heard a small gasp as the bed creaked. “Cas it's him,” he heard Jess's small voice whisper in panic. Jess was awake. Good. _Maybe we can find a way to overpower him together?_ Cas questioned while immediately dismissing the idea. Two frail humans against a demon? They were fucked. 

But the demon didn't attack. Instead, his face seemed contemplative. “Cas?” he repeated the name Jess had used. “Holy shit, it _is_ you,” he said, eyes wide. 

The demon lifted his hands in the air triumphantly, smiling. “Do you know how surprised I was to see _your_ face curled up in bed with the little slut I've been working up a contract with?” He leaned in close to Cas's face, then added seductively, “very surprised.” 

Cas pulled his head away. The demon then scooted back, rubbing his hands together, looking excited. “But then I thought, no, this can't be the great Castiel, heaven and hell's biggest nightmare. Well, next to the Winchesters. But, come on!” he yelled. “I mean, this shmuck is living in a run down, crowded apartment barely a step up from a homeless shelter. Doesn't seem very celestial, now does it?” he remarked with his chin down slightly as if talking to a child. 

Cas eyed the floorboard again, trying to take small stealthy steps towards it while the man recited his monologue. Not to mention,” the demon added, bringing Cas's attention back. He gestured up and down Cas's body with one hand, “you're _human_.” 

And Cas's face reddened a little at the remark. He was human. And it proved to be debilitating in moments like these. 

Behind the demon, Jess's features were overlaid with fear and confusion. And determination. _Fuck,_ Cas thought as he saw her reach for a vase on the bedside table, hands shaking. He shook his head in tiny motions hoping to catch her attention while alluding the demon's. He ached to shout her way and tell her to stop without drawing attention to her, but before he could, he watched ruefully as she shattered it across the demon's head with a yell. 

The demon blinked, smiling. It was almost slow motion as Cas watched him turn to attack. And Cas reacted immediately. He jumped across the bed, rolling to the floor, slamming the floorboard with his fist. The force cracked the wood it in two, his hands coated with blood as he reached through the splintered remains, gripping the blade tightly with his mangled fist. 

Cas didn't even remember moving towards the demon. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Cas acknowledged his hand hurt, but his feet moved in tandem with his breath as he recklessly attacked. And in a moment, he was next to the man. Jess was on the floor, holding her hand against her cheek as if she'd been smacked there.. The demon hovered over her. 

In a second, Cas's knife plunged into the demon's chest. He watched as the man's eyes sparked with yellow light before being extinguished with a scream. And then the body dropped to the floor, thumping on the ground, taking Cas's blade with him. Cas squatted down, pulling the knife out, trying to avoid the empty eyes of the dead man, attempting to dispel thoughts of the poor bastard who owned the vessel. 

And then he stood. Bloodied. Eyes frenzied with adrenaline. And he realized, that it had only taken a split second to pull the soldier from the hidden corner inside himself, as deeply as he thought he had buried it away. The killer in him. Below him, Jess's face stared at him in disbelief, shaking, though from the Demon, or from him, Cas didn't know. He took a step forward, attempting to reach out a calming hand, but Jess scooted back so he stopped. 

“Jess,” he said softly, trying just as hard to bring himself back as to convince Jess he wasn't someone she needed to be afraid of. 

But then he looked at Jess's face again. She wasn't afraid. She was processing. She was human. And she needed a minute, not Cas's blood coated hand as a feeble attempt at placating her nerves. 

Jess blinked. “Ok,” she said after a minute. She stood, and Cas could see she was calming down. 

And finally, she spoke. “So, who are you really, Cas?” she said, her voice hesitant. “Because that was some serious shit I just saw. And the,” she paused, “. . . demon.” Her face seemed to dislike even saying the word. “He knew you.” Her voice strained a little. Maybe she wasn't calm after all. Cas wished right now he were a better judge of people. 

He froze. Where could he begin? Because in all honesty, he wasn't even sure how to start to relate his own story. Could he pinpoint the eons ago of his origin point, or did things only start to matter when he became human? Suddenly his existence seemed to much and also too little. Was he a soldier or a being? _I'm a person,_ Cas thought, almost in an attempt to convince himself. But when had he become more than an angel? More than a corporate tool for heaven's crusades? The answer came crashing down swiftly, causing him to pause at the realization: Dean. He would start with Dean. 

Cas sat down on the bed. Jess looked up at him expectantly. He opened his mouth, blinking. “I—” he started, but suddenly he was cut off. 

“You know, Cas, mindless idiot demons are hard to come by,” said a voice. The man sounded calm and casual as if he were talking about the weather rather than making note of a dead body on the floor. Cas sprung up, immediately brandishing his knife. 

“Crowley,” Cas growled. 

But the king of hell was smiling, as if seeing an old friend for the first time after a long absence. He had his hands stuffed into his pockets as his eyes flicked from Cas to Jess and back again. 

“Relax, little cherub,” Crowley said, “I'm not here to hurt you.” He walked over to the window seal, running a finger over the broken salt line, picking up a few grains and rolling them around in his fingers. Cas watched the smoke rise from Crowley's fingers where they burned with the substance. 

“Come now, Cas,” he said, “is this any way to treat an old friend?” 


	10. Under Water

Dean sometimes had dreams that living inside the bunker was like living in a submarine. And the comparison often carried over to when he was awake. He noted how little light found its way down there, oftentimes the only sounds being the settling of the old piping, mimicking, he thought, like what the pressure adjustments of water closing around them would be like. The air was dense and heavy and kept his body grounded and feeling real as if the construction were simply an extension of Dean's body. And it kind of was. It was as if this place were a blank slate molding to his state of mind, echoing characteristics of himself back again. And it was steady. Predictable. Cold. 

But now, his head twitched against his pillow, struggling against the throws of sleep, waking to the sound of. . . birds? What the fuck? He sat up, looking around the room confusedly, when his eyes landed on the culprit. Charlie stood in front of his bed, fully dressed, holding up her cell phone in the air, the cheery sounds of nature bleeding from the tiny speakers. 

“Rise and Shine, Dean!” she said, her voice annoyingly pleasant. Dean grimaced and threw a pillow at her. She dodged it easily, smirking. Dean glared at her, and she finally sighed, turning off the sounds on her phone, sitting down. 

“God, you're getting old,” she said. “Sam said he's been having to wake you up lately, too.” 

It was true, Dean consented. In the past, he would have survived off of a few measly hours of sleep, constantly pushing his body to the limits. He used to always be the first one up in the mornings, last one to sleep. Charlie had a point and it disturbed him a little. Something about the bunker lulled him into a false sense of security. John would have been disappointed in how easy it would have been to cut his throat in his sleep. Dean rubbed at his neck uncomfortably. He was slipping. 

“Couldn't you have woken me up with some Styx or something?” he complained, standing up and stretching. 

Charlie smiled. “I'll keep that in mind for next time,” she said. “For now, we need to get moving. I have some stuff planned.” She started leaving the room, then threw a quick “get dressed,” over her shoulder as she shut the door. 

Dean fumbled through the drawers, yanking out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, donning them quickly. He made his bed then stumbled through the halls to get breakfast. Charlie was waiting there with a piece of toast as a to go breakfast. Dean looked at it disapprovingly. 

“So, it's going to be that kind of day?” he said. Charlie simply smiled and led the way to the car. 

* * * 

It wasn't as affective as a hunt, but Charlie's schedule proved to be pretty distracting, even if the activities weren't all things Dean would deem as “fun.” But, after the shopping, haircut for Dean and afternoon movie, Dean was ready to eat then go home. 

“Just one more stop,” said Charlie from the passengers seat as the road disappeared in streaks on either side of them. Her seat was pushed forward as far as it could go—somehow she had managed to convince Sam to stuff himself in the back. Dean hadn't even known if it was possible, but he found the sight of his “little” brother crammed into such a tiny space more than a bit amusing. Sam caught his eye in the mirror and Dean stifled a laugh. And as he did, he brushed aside the realization that it had been a long time since he'd even come close to even letting go a little. Maybe Sam was right, maybe inviting Charlie had been exactly what Dean had needed right now. 

Except, his opinion was starting to change when they walked into the last stop and Charlie explained her intentions. 

“Um, no,” Dean said. His eyes were on the ceiling in exasperation. “Charlie, we take too many road trips to have a freakin' pet,” he said, eyeing the wall of animals at the pet store. They'd just walked in and Sam was already reaching in the dog pen, picking up a tiny black puppy out. He lifted the small body up to his face and the furry mass licked it. Sam smiled ridiculously big. 

Dean groaned, “way to go,” he said, gesturing to the scene. Charlie smiled apologetically, but grabbed Dean's hand leading him deeper into the store anyway. 

“Don't worry,” she said, “I wasn't suggesting a dog.” And when they stopped in front of the fish tanks, Dean almost laughed. 

“A freakin' fish?” he asked, “are you serious right now?” 

Charlie ignored his sarcasm, smiling and nodding proudly at her idea. Dean's eyes scanned water, the fish swarming in fluid patterns across his vision. Dean sighed, and despite himself, he looked around at the different tanks. 

The whole wall was filled with fish and Dean had to admit, it was impressive. He stared into one tank, listening to the calming bubbling of the air filter, and suddenly he was inside the water, back in the submarine, looking through the tiny windows at the life at sea. In a second, it had all become a metaphor for his life, and he found it soothing to drown in the display in front of him. Unconsciously, he held his breath as if he might sprout gills and tumble down into the shimmering depths. 

And his eyes caught the sight of one fish, hiding in under a rocky shoal, blue fins fanning out beneath the shadows, distancing from the other fish as if trying to make itself disappear unsuccessfully. It was too beautiful to not be noticed, and right away Dean knew he wanted it. He wanted the fish in perfect view in a tank inside his room where he could see it. And it was all a pathetically obvious metaphor, and yet he didn't feel ashamed. Just needy. He pointed at the fish. 

“That one,” he said quietly. 

And Charlie nodded, gathering an electric fish feeder from the shelves while Dean flagged down one of the workers. 


	11. Bodies

“You look different,” said Crowley, voice surprised, gesturing to Cas's attire. His eyes raked up and down Cas, and the he felt exposed in the act. Crowley then casually started inspecting Cas's apartment, shoes creaking against the strain of the wood. With two fingers, Crowley delicately picked up a tube of pink lipstick that was laying on the dresser. The king of hell held it up, raising his eyebrows. 

“Interesting,” he said, sliding the lid off and eyeing the vibrant color, smiling. Cas maintained his calm demeanor, looking Crowley in the eyes silently. After a moment, Crowley replaced the lid, discretely dropping the lipstick in his pocket. 

Behind him, Cas heard Jess move. He turned his head just in time to see her shakily stand up, her cheek starting to purple. _She's tough,_ Cas thought, eyes scanning the two wounds on her face. And he couldn't understand in certainty the feeling that he wished she didn't have to be. True, he didn't think she'd earned this, but Cas had come to the conclusion that humanity was a curse to most of the people drowning in it, anyway. Who was he to invest in one soul when he'd killed hundreds of others? And yet, he did. Somehow he'd found it in himself to care. But perhaps that was always his problem. . . 

And, despite the automatic confidence his body reverted to, he knew just how vulnerable they both were right now. Still, he found himself impressed by Jess. She'd clubbed a demon over the head and had seen Cas kill a man, and she was still on her feet. And it made Cas wonder, not for the first time, about what kind of past could produce a girl so immune to the chaos of violence. Then again, maybe she was just in shock. 

Cas surveyed Crowley while holding his angel blade stiffly, silver glimmering in the corner of his vision. And he felt the familiarity of it, wondering vaguely how long it would take to wash away his timeless existence as an angel. How long until conflict and violence felt foreign and loathsome to him, rather than an intrinsic fragment of himself. Would it ever? 

And he watched the king of hell meander around his apartment picking up random objects, of which he had few, and looking at them, amused, before setting them down again. 

Cas didn't ask why Crowley was there. The king of hell would get to it eventually. _He always was rather straight forward about what he wanted, albeit dramatic,_ Cas recalled. After all, he knew the man better than most, he conceded with chagrin. 

Crowley continued his tour, stopping with his hands draped over the doors to Cas's closet as his vision fell knowingly on Cas's suit and trench coat. Cas held his breath as the man reached out a hand, rubbing his thumb and finger on the lapel of the coat before looking up at Cas. 

“Bloody hell,” he said quietly, “you really are human now, aren't you.” It was a statement rather than a question, and Cas swallowed. 

Behind him, he heard Jess's tiny staggered breaths, waiting. Cas's eyes glanced down at the body at his feet. From this angle, he could tell the man's suit was too big for him, wrinkled lines draping out from him in tiny mountains of fabric. And the man's eyes looked heavenward, his mouth still open and gaping. 

“Are you here to kill me?” Cas asked calmly. He blinked, surrendering surprisingly easily to the thought. Ready to defend himself, but not feeling the shy evasion of death, either. He knew he probably wouldn't win. 

The king of hell blinked as if confused at the question, then gave Cas an unreadable look. Crowley walked closer to the other man stepping into his space. 

“Why would I want to kill you?” he finally asked, his voice genuine. 

Cas paused, eyes flicking down to the demon's form on the floor. Crowley's gaze followed. 

“Because of that idiot?” Crowley said, looking at Cas squarely, smiling. The King of Hell nodded, as if mulling it over. Then he raised a hand in the air, “Or maybe it has something to do with your purgatory betrayal” he supplied. 

The demon king's voice was fluid and calm, but Cas sensed a thread of genuity in the delivery. Crowley then approached Cas and laid a hand on his left shoulder. Cas felt the warmth of the man's fingers through his sweatshirt juxtaposed by the cold, precious metal of his blade in his grip. 

“Or,” Crowley now whispered darkly, “maybe it has something to do with all the times you've tried, unsuccessfully, to kill me.” 

Cas's muscles tightened. He angled his body in front of Jess. There was a moment where neither men breathed, eyes challenging each other coldly. Then, Crowley smirked, backing away to continue perusing the other man's apartment as if he were growing bored of the conversation. 

“Kinky,” Crowley suddenly said, and Cas's eyes were drawn to the other man's hands as he rifled through Cas's dresser, and plucked out a pair of lacey red booty shorts, holding it in the air. 

“So this is heaven's new fashion,” he said, lining it up with Cas's form across the room as if to envision what it would look like on him. And, despite himself, Cas moved across the room, pulling it from Crowley's hands and dropping it back in the drawer, shutting it. Crowley smirked. 

_What does he want,_ Cas thought again, frustration growing. 

Crowley took a few steps towards Jess, and Cas tensed. The other man noted it curiously. “Ah yes, always the martyr, aren't we Castiel,” he said. He stopped, though, and Cas noted that he didn't go any closer to his friend. 

Crowley suddenly sighed. “I'm not here to kill you,” he finally said, casually. “And I'll even let the girl off the hook.” 

Cas looked from Jess to Crowley warily, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. But Crowley didn't make any sudden moves, and his tone hinted at his sincerity. 

“If?” Cas asked suspiciously, nudging for Crowley to name his condition. 

The king of hell smiled. “If you come have a drink with me.” 


	12. Boys Night Out

Crowley and Cas sat awkwardly in a booth at a local bar. It wasn't exactly what Cas would have pictured as the King of Hell's go to place to unwind. The lights were dim, the music provincial and most of the men here sported blue collar work boots and scruff. To be blunt, it was a bit of a redneck type of bar, to which Cas was surprised to find so close to the city. _Dean would probably go to a place like this,_ Cas thought as he watched a skinny, large busted woman sit down on the lap of one of the men at the bar as he wrapped a thick hand around her bare stomach. 

Cas rubbed at his aching hand under the table. He'd washed off the blood, but his pinky was beginning to swell and turn purple, a reminder that he'd just killed someone, the body still lying in his apartment. If he left tonight's date with Crowley alive, he'd have to figure out how to dispose of it along with the blood caked hoodie he'd discarded on the floor. 

His mind distracted, he accidentally made eye contact with a man at the bar who was giving him an unreadable expression. And Cas looked around uncomfortably as he realized that he and Crowley stood out. Between Crowley's expensive suit and the skin Cas was showing, it made him wonder if he looked like Crowley's whore. _Well, it's not too far of a stretch, is it?_ he admitted as he tried to keep his eyes on the drink that the waitress had brought for him. 

Crowley had ordered for them and Cas's drink was pink and fruity with a swirly straw and a flower sticking out of the top. Cas gave Crowley an annoyed expression that was met with an equally amused one. 

“Why are we here?” Cas asked, taking a sip of his drink anyway. He assumed he would need some alcohol pumping through his bloodstream before this conversation was over. 

Crowley removed his coat, putting it on the seat next to him before rolling up his his black sleeves one at a time. He strung one of his arms across the back of the bench, watching Cas as he sipped his drink, ignoring his question. 

“So, Castiel,” he said casually, the yellow light painting his cheeks with a seedy glow, “you're human?” 

Cas blinked, furrowing his eyebrows. He wasn't going to answer stupid questions. He'd agreed to come get a drink with Crowley, but his insides itched at the idea. Crowley watched him as if waiting for him to try and run, knowing full well there wasn't anywhere to go, but like he'd enjoy seeing him try anyway. 

Instead, Cas took another stiff sip of his drink, his fingers wrapped delicately around the straw, vowing he wouldn't give the other man the pleasure. 

As he did, he caught a glimpse of his arm, peeked with goosebumps from the chill of the room, his hairs standing on end. It was pretty cold in here, he acknowledged. And suddenly he realized just how accustomed he'd grown to the cold, like it was an extension of himself. A perpetual numbness, he supposed, that left him unaware of when he felt it, only noticing when he saw his skin prickled with tiny bumps, small muscles contracting to the sensation without any awareness to his conscious brain. And it left him feeling detached from himself, as if even his body would desert him if it were capable. 

“Well,” Crowley continued, looking unhampered by Cas's silence. “You're not what I expected.” 

The King of Hell took a swig of his own drink, swirling the dark liquid around the bottom of the glass a few times before he did. 

“And what exactly did you expect?” Cas asked, despite his earlier resolution. Because it was a question he'd posed to himself before. Humanity had been extremely different than Cas had anticipated. It was more difficult and complicated. And he'd often tried, unsuccessfully, not to think about what Dean's opinion would be of him now. He imagined his life would look very different than what Dean would expect. And he was sure the results would disappoint Dean. But then again, did Dean really care what Cas did with his life anymore? What Cas spent his time doing didn't involve Dean, so maybe the angel's descent wouldn't really be a profound revelation after all, Cas acknowledged. But he wasn't sure if that was comforting or upsetting. 

But Crowley smiled, looking entertained. “I dunno,” he said, “I guess I thought I'd find you volunteering in a homeless shelter or something.” 

Cas pursed his lips, remembering the night he'd spent in one, side by side with the earth's unwanted victims. Is that what he was now? Did he fail to evolve? Or, maybe his power derived solely from being an angel. Hadn't he always felt the desire to help humanity? Inside, he knew he had. Did. But it seemed an impossible task when he realized just how little he was able to help himself. If he'd thought he'd found some semblance of comfort in the stability he'd had in his life yesterday, Crowley's one question had reminded him, again, just how fragile it was. 

“But this,” Crowley teased, ending Cas's mental train of thought, “is better.” 

Cas's eyes flicked up, surprised, and he squirmed a little in his seat as Crowley leaned forward, propping both elbows on the counter. 

“So when you get a client, do you offer the 'heavenly package?' or do you specialize in more of 'holy trinity experience?'” Crowley said, talking with his hands. 

Cas found himself rolling his eyes. “Really?” he said, landing his stare point blank on Crowley's face. 

Crowley shrugged, turning the corners of his mouth down, leaning back. “Can't blame a girl for trying,” he said, raising his eyebrows. 

Cas took another sip of his drink, then sighed. So Crowley was here to enjoy the show. Was it that surprising? As an angel, he hadn't made Crowley's life easy, so it seemed fitting that the man would enjoy watching him powerless. 

And yet, the realization didn't really upset Cas. He didn't exactly spend a great deal of time ashamed about his profession. Shame was a human emotion, wasn't it? But, even as he thought it, he knew it was a true statement with one big exception. There was one person who he hoped would never know. Never find out what he did to survive. 

“Alright,” Crowley finally said to the silent Cas, “I'm done. But you couldn't expect me not to make a few jokes about it, could you?” 

Cas narrowed his eyes. So he wasn't there to humiliate Cas. At least not completely. 

“Wait,” Cas said, a thought coming to him. “You said you didn't expect to find me like this. Does that mean you were looking for me?” 

Crowley paused, running his finger around the rim of his glass and suddenly the bar was too loud, the patrons laughing boisterously and excessively, as if to quiet their own thoughts, or at the very least, find a way to be heard over the twangy rhythms blasting through the speakers. 

“I _was_ looking for you,” said Crowley finally, his serious voice contrasting the attitude of the bar. And he hesitated as he let “Because I need your help” slip from his mouth like it was something distasteful. 

And Cas leaned back, surveying Crowley suspiciously, brows furrowed. 

“I'm nobody,” Cas said readily, the words falling easily and comfortably from his lips. “why would you want me?” 

At this, Crowley smiled strangely, then gently knocked his almost-empty glass back onto the hard surface of the table. 

“Because,” Crowley said, “you are going to help me find Dean.” 


	13. Balm

Jess was awake. She'd been sitting on the edge of her queen bed, looking at the other two girls stuffed in it with her. They were sound asleep despite the fact that small threads of sunshine were fighting their way through the thick black blanket they'd draped over the window to keep the light out. But it was normal in this profession to sleep during the day, considering when they worked. 

Traffic sounds from below made their way through the glass reminding Jess of Cas's apartment. But little else about her place reminded her of him. Cas kept his home clean and free of clutter while her apartment was a small room with clothing littered on the floor, empty bottles of alcohol on the dresser and drugs inside it. 

She'd never been to Cas's place before, and despite the fact she knew better, part of her had hoped that one day she would. She thought of Cas's captivating blue eyes and felt the familiar ache of wanting him near. There had always been something different about Cas. Something special. So, she'd watched him with interest, never able to figure out his sexual orientation to satisfaction, but noting a curious, faraway look about him sometimes, like there was a specific person on the other end of it. And she wished, more than once, it could be her. That Cas would take her home and hold her in his arms and she'd get to peek inside his confusing gaze and find out his secrets. 

Jess shuddered as she realized she had gotten all of that, tonight, in a way, even if she didn't fully understand it. And now there was a body on his floor, and she couldn't get the image out of her mind of Cas's hands, covered in red, and the fury in his eyes like he'd stepped out of his skin and become someone else. 

Jess looked at her sleeping roommates, and felt glad to be home as she pushed thoughts of Cas to the back of her mind. Between the three of them, their bed was usually a tangle of exposed limbs, sometimes bras and panties, but mostly the heat of the three girls as their skin mingled and merged with each others. And sometimes Jess wondered if normal roommates slept this way, baring their skin to each other like clothing was an obstacle to their closeness. 

And Jess noticed a cut on her hand. Not deep, and barely noticeable, but it reminded her that tonight was real and there were darker things out there than the bodies she gave herself to in the night. Jess shook her head to clear it, looking down at the quiet, tiny breaths Sasha was exhaling while she slept. Jess reached forward and brushed a long blonde hair behind the other girl's ear, following the trail of it down her naked back. Even asleep, Sasha arched the curve of her spine at the attention. At the bottom of her back, Amber's sleeping hand twitched where it was wrapped lightly around Sasha's pink, panty clad ass. No, Jess knew this wasn't normal. But she also thought she understood why they did it, she realized, as Sasha turned sleepily to her side and Jess licked her thumb then started massaging the other girl's nipple with it. 

After a moment, Sasha's eyes fluttered open beautifully, her thick mascara smeared underneath. She smiled sweetly up at the other girl as Jess lowered her head, kissing and licking at her breast lightly. Jess pulled up a little and Sasha traced Jess's fresh black eye with one finger, a semblance of understanding in her gaze. With a look of admiration, she pulled Jess into a comforting kiss, tracing the palm of her hand up Jess's flat stomach lightly until it cupped around her soft breast. Jess pulled her head back, inhaling at the sensation before looking back down at Sasha, now awake, eyes wide and steady. 

The woman was beautiful, they all were. But that wasn't why they did this. Wasn't why Jess moved herself in-between the other woman's legs, freeing her underwear softly from each leg as she reverently held Sasha's gaze with her own. Her hand grazed the inside of Sasha's leg like it was a thing of beauty as she dipped her mouth to it, kissing her thighs tenderly, breathing hot breaths on the sensitive skin there. 

And Sasha opened herself like an offering as Jess's tongue traced her clit, tasting the familiar warmth of her friend. She watched Sasha's skin ripple and stretch with each sweep of her tongue as she let the tip slide inside her as she held her hips still. But even her hands were airy against her skin. Because there was an unspoken understanding of reverence when they pleasured each other, never abrasive or rough, sometimes kissing or sucking at the red marks other men had made like a healing balm to wash away the cold brutality of the outside world. It transcended sexuality, in a way, when they gave themselves completely to the other person, letting them mend them with their touch. 

Jess worked Sasha to a slow, heated orgasm, first with her mouth, then inserting her fingers, letting the sticky warmth surround the skin the same way every hitch in Sasha's breathing surrounded her senses. The other girl was moaning now, lifting her back off of the mattress as she grabbed at one of her own breasts, and Jess was surprised that Amber was sleeping through it. Jess crawled up to Sasha's neck, sucking on the other side of her chest as she continued building her friend's breaths with expert hands. And every sound she elicited felt like a release of her own as she realized tears were beginning to fall from her cheeks, falling onto Sasha's skin and onto her own lips as she began to mouth the other woman's belly button, chest, neck and lower stomach with abandon as if no amount of flesh was enough for the tender ministrations she ached to perform. 

And the sound was quiet and delicate in a way when Sasha pulled her head back into the pillow, closing her eyes tightly through her high, body issuing out small tremors of pleasure through her mouth which Jess kissed away with salty lips. 

And when Sasha opened her eyes, Jess's tears were flowing freely now, uninhibited, her shoulder blades convulsing through the silent waves. Sasha wiped the tears free from Jess's face with shushing sounds while kissing each cheek tenderly. 

“Come kotyonok,” she said, her accent thick, even through her whispers. And she helped Jess out of her shirt so she could hold her chest against hers and feel each others heartbeats. 

Jess cried, while Sasha stroked her hair for what felt like hours, until the tears were gone and she found herself crusty lidded and staring at a dark water patch on their wall. 

And finally, brokenly, she spoke, feeling the vibrations of her words against Sasha's chest: “I saw a demon last night.” 

And Sasha kissed the top of Jess's head softly. 

“I know,” she said. 


	14. Tracks

Cas looked down at the scuff marks on the floor of the train, his eyes following them like they were hidden trails. Across from him, a man was snoring lightly, arms strung awkwardly across the seat in front of him, his head tipping to one side as his mouth fell open. His head bobbed in minute increments with the turbulence. No one else was in the compartment. Cas closed his eyes, letting the deep thrumming sounds of the train massage his brain. 

But, despite the thick hum of the tracks that echoed through him, his mind was preoccupied. For the first time in a day full of unexpected turns, Cas had a moment to think. And the data that filled his mind was nauseating. 

Crowley wanted Dean. The idea was chilling in a very present way for Cas. Not only because he'd done his best to carve the remnants of Dean from his new existence, but because it had only taken Crowley one word for him to realize how poorly he'd accomplished the task. Hearing Dean's name again was a source of warmth that exposed just how icy and lonely his life was now, even if Cas denied it. For every man he took and presented his body to, a cold, dark place grew inside him to hold all the ache. Once, he'd tasted a sense of belonging with Dean and Sam, but now it was gone, and he found himself wishing he could go to his apartment and crawl back in bed and find his safe space again where no one said the names of the ghosts of his past out loud. 

But Crowley had shattered his own illusions, reminding Cas that there was something in the world left that was worth protecting; Even if it meant admitting Dean was real. 

Cas gripped the edge of the bench underneath him, thinking. Right or wrong, Dean had a way of taking precedence for Cas. He wanted to help Jess. . . but this was Dean. If he was evading Crowley, there was a reason for it. Cas rubbed at his hand, wincing as he thumbed the raw skin stretching where his pinky started to swell and bruise. It would take time for his hand to recover from the fight in his apartment. It had happened in a split second and it would take weeks to heal. How truly vulnerable he was, then, in the face of hell. Once, he'd thought he was strong, but now he realized he would need to take a different tactic. Cas let his fingers run along the inside of his arm, tracing his veins across his wrist, pushing against them as his skin dipped inward till he could feel the steady waves of his pulse. Despite the night's events, his blood pumped steadily under his skin, reminding him that he was a new creature, now. 

As an angel, Cas had confronted adversaries with the blunt purity of heaven's sanctimonious fury. But, he no longer had heaven's strength and identity to lean on. Since he became human he had been carried forward by necessity and reaction, but now, perhaps, it was time to get his hands dirty. He knew he would choose Dean over Jess. It wasn't something he felt proud of, but lying about it didn't improve the truth. Dean would always come first, given the choice. But maybe he didn't have to choose. . . 

Cas leaned his head back on the seat, letting his eyes fall on the ceiling as his decision slid across him. He held a silent hope that he was capable of doing what needed to be done. Because he decided to agree to help Crowley. And he would stab him in the back. Again. 

* * * 

Crowley watched as Cas walked away, unconsciously giving off a deep hum of satisfaction. Buttoning his coat, he left the bar and walked into the cool night air. Crowley breathed in the thick musk of the streets, fitting his hands solidly into his pockets, smiling. He'd found Castiel tonight, and it was even better than he'd expected; The angel had turned himself into a whore. 

Crowley's eyes followed the small outline of Cas's frame as he walked toward the train and he noted the thin lines of the man's toned arms, his shoulders hunched with the added weight of cares. Crowley knew Castiel would agree help him, even if he didn't know it yet, because human or not, the King of Hell understood him. The angel may have thought he'd changed, but underneath, he was the same self-sacrificing, arrogant calculating man he'd always been. 

And the wind picked up, the cold weaving through Crowley's facial hair as a smile twitched at the side of his mouth. He trafficked the streets, reminiscing of times when he'd been naïve when it came to the angel. Cas had always had an innocent and self-righteous air to him, and it was the single most deceiving quality about him. Because, Crowley now knew Cas was darker than his persona advertised. He would claw and scratch his way to the things he wanted. He would gobble up the souls of hell and pluck the life away from the hosts of heaven in droves as angel after angel fell before him. Cas was capable of more darkness and violence than Crowley suspected he even recognized in himself. And Crowley saw through the cloudy illusion that painted Cas as prey now that he was human. Because he might let a hundred Johns fuck his body 'till he felt used up and broken, but it would never be who Cas really was. But Crowley knew who he was, and he would swallow him whole for it. 

Crowley's mind dipped briefly to Dean and Jess as he thought about Cas's strange sense of loyalty to his humans. _Even dark things have objects they love_ , Crowley thought, _I would know_. 

With that thought ringing in his mind, Crowley pulled out his phone. He brought up his contact list, scrolling to the “d”s before locating Dean's name and dialing. It rung twice before Dean answered. 

“Yeah?” Dean's gruff voice came through the phone. Characteristically, he sounded displeased to hear from him. Crowley smirked at it. 

“Hello to you too,” said Crowley coming to a stop in the shadows of an old building. When Dean didn't respond, he continued. “Are you still looking for your fallen angel?” 


	15. Paths

Cas stood on the corner, hair gelled and slightly wild. He was wearing dark eyeliner, a tight red shirt and leather motorcycle vest to add a bit to the bad boy persona. Whatever the hell that was. He wasn't opposed to flamboyancy, but it didn't usually match his style. Tonight, though, he needed an extra edge. So, he'd dubbed a black necklace around his neck and an assortment of rings on his fingers. And tight pants. Very tight. He'd tried to even the look out with converse, but he couldn't help but feel a little like a peacock anyway as he tapped his toe impatiently. Not that it mattered. He could just as well be standing at the corner in a clown costume and his mind would be equally as distracted. 

He needed one more gig—One really expensive fuck to get him out of this mess. Or, a good number of quickie blow jobs. Either way, he was banking on sex tonight to get him what he needed. 

Suddenly, his phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket. Jess. 

“Hi,” he said, his eyes still scanning the streets for potential customers. 

“Hi,” echoed a small voice through the phone. And then silence. Cas hadn't talked to Jess since his apartment. He'd sent her home in a cab and left with Crowley promising to call her. And he never did. He probably shouldn't have neglected her, but she was safe, at least for now, and he'd had bigger problems on his mind. 

“Uh, how are you doing?” he stumbled out awkwardly. Cas's toe stilled. 

Jess didn't respond right away, and Cas checked his phone, making sure she was still on the line. 

“You there?” he asked after a minute. 

“Yeah,” she said finally, her voice quiet. “Look. . . fuck,” she said, then stopped. 

“Cas, can we meet up? I—I'm just. . .” she paused, “Can you just meet me somewhere? I think I just need someone to talk to.” 

Cas paused, running his hand over his face, sighing away from the phone. _I don't have time for this,_ he thought. 

“Yeah,” Cas said, finally, “I'll find some time and we'll talk.” 

There was silence. And then: “Thanks.” 

Cas hung up and turned his attention back to the street. He'd worry about Jess later. Right now, he needed money if he was going to buy a ticket to the bunker. Cas pocketed the phone as his stomach turned a little apprehensive at the thought. He couldn't call Dean. Crowley would see that coming. No, his best bet was to wait. All he needed was a few days. Then, he hoped, it would be safe to go back to the bunker. He thought of Jess, feeling a little guilty, but pushed the concern aside as a black Mercedes pulled up. 

He started to walk to the car, but stopped when the door opened. A tall, strong man in his early forties exited the back seat of the car. The man wore what looked like an extremely expensive suit, a thick cigar hanging from his mouth. He looked Cas up and down appraisingly, his features business-like. His steps were slow and deliberate as he circled Cas. 

“Looking for company?” Cas asked the man. 

“Are you clean?” asked the man, his voice deep and strong. 

Cas nodded as the man's face creeped in closer to his until they were nose to nose. He grabbed Cas's chin, tilting it upwards. _God, he's tall,_ thought Cas _and huge_. He held his breath as the man looked into his eyes determinedly. And the other man's gaze felt ironically dehumanizing, like he was looking at an object rather than into Cas's eyes. But Cas held still, meeting his gaze anyway. 

“You'll do,” the man finally said, exhaling a cloud of smoke on Cas's face before letting his hand drop. The man used his cigar to gesture to the car. 

“Get in,” he said. 

* * * 

Dean held the phone in front of him, staring at it, mind spinning. _Cas is alive._ He was sitting down on the edge of his bed, frozen, trying to process. Trying to think logically. After all, this was Crowley. Why the hell would he help Dean? 

Dean's hand was still in the air, starting to go numb, but he couldn't pry his eyes away from his phone, replaying the conversation over and over again in his mind. Could it be true? Could Crowley really have found Cas? 

Crowley hadn't given many details, and Dean was too stunned to ask. Was Cas ok? What kind of condition would he find him in? 

For months, Dean's mind had revolved around the idea that he might get news like this. In his guilty moments, he'd imagined it happening in a hundred different ways. But not like this. Never like this; Crowley could be lying. Immediately, Dean's chest burned at the thought. God, he couldn't even think about it. He tried not to let himself hope, but he realized it was too late. It had taken exactly one second for Dean to decide what he was going to do, even if he hadn't admitted it yet to himself. 

He stood up and started packing. Fast. He wasn't even sure what clothes he threw in with his guns and ammo, but within five minutes he was ready to go. As if on cue, his phone flashed with an address from Crowley. 

It was late and Dean was careful not to wake Sam and Charlie as he left. _You should probably be going with Sam,_ his cautious self prompted him, but he didn't go get him. He knew this was a bad idea. But, he also knew he couldn't ignore the best lead he'd gotten on Cas. And he couldn't deal with anyone telling him not to go. Not even Sam. 

So, he slammed the door on the impala, peeling out of the parking garage, trying to ignore the knot forming in his stomach. _I'm coming to find you Cas,_ he thought, and hoped to God it was true. 


	16. Masks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a little early because I'm moving this weekend and starting a new job next week! Yay! I may or may not have time to update again in the next week or so, so I put this up to hopefully tie everyone over just in case . . . ;)

Cas slid into the back seat of the Mercedes. Though he was by no means small, he started to feel like it next to the man with the cigar. 

The man leaned forward to his driver, scissoring the smoke between his fingers, speaking commandingly in Russian. 

“Take us to the house.” 

Cas pretended that he didn't understand him; It seemed better to appear ignorant. 

There was no music in the car and once the man had settled his back into the seat, he didn't pay any attention to Cas at all. The window had a crack in it to disperse the smoke, but white wisps still accumulated in the air, trapping them in a thin cloud of vapors, dipping into the bottoms of Cas's lungs with each breath until his insides itched for him to cough. He swallowed the urge, though, and tried to distract himself, looking at the movement of the street lights through his window, wondering why a man paying for sex seemed to have such little interest in his product. 

And the ride was long. Too long. Cas started to shift in his seat as he realized almost a half-hour had gone by, smoke filling his eyes and ears and mouth, even though he had rolled the window down more during the drive. But the other man didn't seem to mind the affects of baptizing them in a cloud of haze. In fact, his eyes never wandered from the spot he was looking at out of the window as his driver took them closer to “the house.” 

From observation, Cas guessed this man was probably like this in all areas of his life: controlling and direct. And Cas wondered if that's what sex would be like with him, too. He glanced at the man's arms. They reminded him of small barrels attached to a body. Cas looked away. He felt a sense of caution growing in his chest. 

The driver pulled up to a tall gate with intricate steel bars weaving around one another and ending in the sky with sharp spears. Cas watched it swing open, and couldn't help but feel that it was like watching the jagged teeth of a lion retracting to make room to swallow them whole. 

And the driver slowed down as he drove through the fence and onto a smaller, winding pathway. It was too dark to see clearly, but ahead of the car's beams, Cas could see the tall pines that framed each side of the road like walls. 

They drove for a good distance before Cas started to make out light ahead of them. He leaned forward in his seat a tiny bit as the light came closer until, finally, they rounded a curve and a huge house began to appear. Not a house. A mansion—framed by white marble pillars and extended balconies. 

Cas inhaled, forgetting about the smoke for a moment. It's not that he hadn't seen more impressive landmarks in his long life span. He had. On numerous occasions. But since becoming human, he'd spent his hours in the clutches of poverty and dark motel rooms, and he'd almost forgotten that there were people out there who didn't live like that. Who enjoyed luxury and opulence as opposed to the cold. He wondered if this man ever experienced cold. 

“God,” he whispered, and the man looked at him for the first time since they'd left the street, albiet with a bored face. The man huffed out of his nose, then glanced away again, regaining his distant stare. 

The car pulled up in front of the doors, stopping. The man got out and Cas followed suit, feeling largely under-dressed for this place. He was stopped in front of the house, giving it one last glance when he felt a large palm on the back of his head, prompting him forward like he was a 10-year-old whose Dad wanted him to hurry up. Cas shuffled forward, pretending he didn't notice. After all, this line of work required a level of submissiveness when called for. And he suspected that this man was acclimated to submission. Cas vaguely reminisced about when he'd been similar; As God, filled with leviathan. As an angel. As a warrior. . . And yet, it was surprising how good he'd gotten at giving up his power and bowing his head to the new gods: sex and money. 

There was a woman ready at the door to open it for them as they reached it, and Cas walked through, trailing behind the man like a shadow, nodding a thanks to her as he went. She gave him a small, timid smile before pushing the heavy door back into place and moving to remove the man's coat from him, uttering a quiet, “sir.” The man disposed of his cigar in a nearby ash tray and started walking up the flight of huge stairs in the entryway. 

“This way,” he said, not looking back. There was loud music playing somewhere and Cas realized it was coming from upstairs as he followed silently, noting his milky reflection in the marble of the ascending bannister. 

At the top of the stairs, there was a hallway in each direction, but the man didn't go either way. Instead, he stopped in front of a large, thick double door, behind which was the origin of the music. Cas stopped, too, waiting. 

He looked at the man, pondering on the fact that he didn't know his name. But that was standard. Every man was a John—a mask, lacking sincerity. Cas furrowed his eyebrows, questioning; perhaps it was the opposite, though—humans afraid to oblige their desires, finally taking off the disguise in the presence of a trivial whore. 

He watched as his john pushed the doors free to the room. And Cas's senses were inundated with sounds, his eyes needing a moment to adjust to the dim lighting of the room. Cas took a few steps forward, squinting. There was a long white couch in the center of the room, and all sorts of furniture; ottomans, coffee tables, and a gigantic bed. The room was huge. And a good looking younger man sat down in the middle of the couch, a drink in hand, wearing an open robe that fell to his sides, revealing the fact that he was naked. His legs were apart and his free arm ran the length of the couch as he eyed Cas with a wicked smile. Cas's eyes quickly scanned the room, planting his feet firmly to the ground. 

He glanced back over his shoulder, expecting the man from the Mercedes to follow. Instead, he watched the doors shut, leaving him alone with the man in the robe. And, as he looked into the other man's hungry eyes, Cas realized that perhaps it wasn't the Johns who wore a mask in the dark of each fuck, but him. 


	17. Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out that LESS time equals MORE updates. Lol. I guess I'm using writing as a stress reliever.

Crowley made his way up to the gate, noting the thick steel barrier laid out in formidable patterns, not just as a protection, but as a warning to anyone stupid enough to trespass. 

“My my, little Cas,” he said, clicking his tongue “You sure do know how to find trouble.” 

And he was smiling as he snapped his fingers and appeared in front of the mansion, uttering a low whistle to himself. 

“Trouble indeed,” he whispered, a shine in his eyes. 

He'd hoped their talk earlier would prompt Cas back into the bed of another man; Cas was too smart to try and call Dean, but he could go to him. Warn him. _About a false threat,_ Crowley thought, feeling smug. But this? Crowley couldn't have anticipated this. Things were coming together beautifully. 

He clenched his fist as he thought of Cas. Crowley was a patient man, but Cas had crossed the line. It wasn't enough that Cas give him back what he stole. He'd need to pay for it, too. And Crowley would break him down, piece by piece never letting on that he knew what Cas had taken from him. The little asshole had made it personal. 

Crowley marveled at how innocent Cas made himself seem. He made a fairly convincing victim at his apartment. Not that some of it wasn't real, he acknowledged, looking at the foreboding mansion again, shaking his head; As it turned out, Cas was fairly adept at punishing himself. Crowley kicked at a pebble, eyeing the mansion. Cas may be adept at stratagem, but the fact that he was _here_ pointed to the fact that he was in over his head when it came to humanity. Not that Crowley disapproved. 

_He has one very important card, though,_ Crowley reminded himself, wondering if poking the bear was really such a wise idea. But Crowley threw the warning aside. Cas was determined to play dumb. Maybe he couldn't get to it. Either way, Crowley had decided he wouldn't cower. It wasn't his style. 

He paced the front of the house, admiring the Russian Mob's sense of style, though. Marble inlay snaked across the wide expanses, and Crowley caught the glimpse of a few large fountains in his peripheral. Wealth, drugs, killing. He could admire that kind of art, and he partly wished he'd played a hand in the Drug Lord's grisly success. Still, he could appreciate it. It was like a mirror of a smaller, less impressive version of himself. Nevertheless, the brutality had its merits. 

Intermittently, he spied a few snipers along the balconies, dipped back in the shadows, hiding from human eyes. _Hello there,_ Crowley thought, finding each of them one at a time like Waldo on the back of a cereal box. The men pointed their guns down to where Crowley roamed, unaware of the King of Hell waltzing into their domain. And somehow, that always gave him a sense of pleasure. If it suited his plan, he would have enjoyed the stunned looks on their faces if he suddenly appeared to them. They would have shot at him. He would have smiled. There would have been blood. A lot of it. Crowley smirked, then his face fell, disappointed; it wouldn't do to have them causing a disturbance. And it wouldn't do to get Dean killed when he led him here. Dean needed to see Cas for what he really was. Who he'd become. 

He almost felt bad leading him into a trap. He had a certain soft spot for Dean. But so did Cas, which made him the perfect fodder for Cas's funeral Pier. 

So, Crowley sighed, waving his hand in the air, snapping neck after neck with telekinesis and a bored look on his face. He watched them fall, man after man, like wilting flowers in the shadows. 

_Yes,_ he thought again, continuing his work, _things are coming together beautifully._

* * * 

Dean's hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. He'd been driving hours non-stop and his back was stiff and protesting. He hadn't even stopped for food. His stomach confirmed the abuse with a growl. The music was still turned down low in the background from when he'd called Sam. Dean shook his head. It hadn't been the most pleasant of conversations, and Sam had been rightfully pissed. But it was done, and he still stood by his decision. He brushed it aside. He'd deal with Sam later. Better to ask forgiveness than permission anyway. 

The location Crowley had texted him was still a solid hour away, and he couldn't get there fast enough. Even speeding, it seemed the distance to Cas was being stretched out too long. He wasn't sure what his hurry was, though. He'd waited months, what were a few more hours? And, it might not even be Cas. But maybe that was it; There was hope firing inside him, against his will. It was uncomfortable and dangerous and Dean wished he could stop it. But it spread, unrelenting, like a weed, tempting to choke him with instability. Maybe it _was_ Cas. 

_It has to be him,_ he thought. _It has to._ And, he didn't think about what he'd do if it wasn't. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he leaned back, tugging it out of his pants, looking at the caller. It was Crowley. 

“Crowley,” Dean answered apprehensively. 

“Dean,” Crowley said, “Change of plans. I'll text you the address.” 

Dean furrowed his eyebrows, his eyes gazing into the dark of the freeway as the green mile markers whizzed past him. A new address? What the hell was Crowley up to? 

“Why?” he asked suspiciously. “Are you with him?” his voice hitched. “Put him on.” 

Crowley sighed, sounding annoyed when he spoke. “No, I'm not with him. But I know where he is. Just go to the damn address,” he said. “Cas will be there.” 

And he must have known that would be enough incentive for Dean, because he hung up without another word. 

“Asshole,” Dean said. But he pulled up the address anyway, putting it into his phone, because Crowley wasn't wrong. It was enough. 


	18. Lions

It was still Dark when Dean got to the address, and it served to enhance the ominous appearance of the gate he now stood behind. 

_I must be in the wrong place,_ he thought, reaching for his phone, but suddenly, a black figure began to walk towards him from the darkness. 

Dean grabbed his gun quickly, aiming it at the outline before a face emerged. 

“Damn it, Crowley,” he said, uncocking his gun and stuffing it in the back of his pants again. “I almost shot you.” 

“Would have been a waste of a bullet,” Crowley said, sounding unimpressed. 

Dean ignored him. “Where's Cas?” 

Crowley nodded toward the gate. 

Dean narrowed his eyes. 

“Come on,” said Crowley, waving his hand in the air, the gate swinging open slowly in response. 

Dean looked in suspiciously. What was Crowley up to? This was the last type of place he expected to find Cas. 

But, he hopped back into the impala anyway, not even arguing when Crowley appeared beside him in the passenger's seat. 

And Dean felt his heartbeat increase a little as he heard the gate scrape shut behind them. Felt his breathing increase as they drove through a forest of trees bending over the road as if in an attempt to consume them. 

But, when he pulled up to the side of the house, viewing it for the first time, that was when he really felt the anxiety kick in. 

He shut off the engine and turned to Crowley, feeling fear creeping into his chest. 

“Why didn't you tell me he was at the house of a fucking drug lord?” he said, furious. 

Crowley turned to Dean calmly, ignoring his accusations. 

“I've done the leg work on the outside of the house,” he said. “All you need to do is deal with the inside security.” 

Dean turned to Crowley, his face furious. “He better still be alive when I get in there,” he said, his voice breaking, “or I'm coming for you next.” 

* * * 

Cas looked back at the man as his eyes raked Cas's body over with interest. 

“Hello,” said Cas evenly. 

The man took a sip of his drink, then smirked. He stood up, turning down the music before he made his way to Cas, tilting his head back and downing the last of the dark liquid. He walked slowly, letting the empty tumbler slip from his hand and fall to the ground like an afterthought. The man stretched his arms out like a cross, letting his robe spill next to the glass in a cascade of soft fabric. Then, he walked to Cas, his steps confident until his face was next to his. Close. Examining Cas's eyes with interest and a bit of curiosity. But the man didn't touch him. In fact, his fingers twitched at his side before he made a fist as if to still them. Hold them at bay. 

Cas furrowed his eyebrows, squinting a little as he assessed the situation. Unlike the giant in the Mercedes, this man was about equal in height to Cas, with dark, tousled hair and a strong build. His jaw was firm, coated with a five-o-clock shadow. But it was his demeanor that immediately suggested a sense of authority. And Cas was a little impressed with a man that could stand stark naked and silent in front of another human and still invoke intimidation. And Cas wondered briefly if that wasn't exactly why he'd done it. The man in the Mercedes had brute strength that spoke for him. But this man. . . he didn't need it. Which, in part, made Cas find him even more dangerous. 

Then, it happened. It was pure instinct; Cas had spent months letting go of authority and power and the feeling of security it gave you. Selling little bits at a time, pulling him away from the man who'd killed for God himself and helped two hunters save the world. But, he watched as amber flecks of desire flared in the man's eyes in front of him and he'd known, right at that minute, that this man wasn't a typical John seeking warmth from loneliness, or a place where they can transfer their self loathing. He'd let Cas see the animal in him. The killer. 

And so, it was instinct. It was small. Someone else might have missed it when Cas raised his chin in challenge. Might have missed Cas unchain that savage part of him he'd kept at bay. 

But the man noticed. Even if it only lasted a split second. And he closed his eyes tight, in front of Cas, breathing in the exchange as if savoring the scent. 

“Well,” the man finally spoke in a deep, Russian accent, “Aren't you the catch?” 

Cas let the man appraise him for a moment longer, before he let his head fall down again a bit. _What am I doing?_ he thought. He looked up at the man again, letting his defiance slip back down under his mask of docility and compliance. He was here for Dean. 

And the man noticed the change in Cas. Watched as his spark went out and Cas hid his animal again. Cas couldn't be sure, but he didn't think the man looked pleased. Instead, he thought he might even look mildly disappointed. But, after a moment, the man reached forward, grabbing Cas's hand lightly and slowly leading him to the couch, walking backwards so he could keep looking at him. 

“Don't be shy,” the man said, but Cas wasn't sure why. He knew he didn't look nervous. Enigmatic maybe, but not nervous. Not that mysterious was bad. He imagined that the inner workings of an ancient, complex angelic psyche would be less than appealing to, well, to anyone. 

But instead, he nodded as if letting the man's words put him at ease. And his John led him to the couch. But, surprisingly, the man picked a seat on the other side, giving Cas plenty of space. Cas glanced at the naked man next to him. He caught Cas's gaze and smiled. 

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asked, looking down at his own crotch, sounding amused. 

Cas furrowed his eyebrows. “No,” he said candidly, “Of course not. I'm a prostitute.” 

The man nodded, looking both amused and unconvinced, and Cas couldn't help but feel that he was intriguing his John. And it was starting to make him uncomfortable. 

“Tell me about yourself,” the man said, gathering his robe from the floor and donning it before sitting down again. 

Cas bit his lip. Johns didn't usually make him talk before sex, and he was reluctant to do so now. But Dean. . . 

“—I like to get acquainted with my. . . guests,” the man said, pulling on one of the ties to his robe, tightening it. Still, his chest was exposed, and one leg teased out of the slit in the middle. 

“What do you want to know?” Cas asked obediently. For Dean. 

The man leaned back. “Just tell me something,” he said, waving his hand nonchalantly in the air as he talked. Then, darkly: “I don't like to fuck a wall.” 

_You're about to fuck a fallen angel,_ Cas thought, but dismissed it. He needed to get out from under this strange interrogation. 

But the man scooted closer. “Tell me how a pretty thing like you became a prostitute,” he whispered. 

The man raised his eyebrows and Cas shifted in his seat, swallowing. “For the money,” he said plainly. 

The man turned and propped his elbow across the length of the couch, leaning in to Cas seductively. “So you're a whore and a liar,” he said accusingly. 

Cas didn't answer, finding himself extremely unsure of what to say next. This man was different from his other Johns, and Cas couldn't help but think that he liked to play with his food before he ate it. 

And the man smiled even bigger, getting closer and closer to Cas, eyes lit. “Do you always act like this with your clients?” he asked, taking a finger and running it lightly up and down Cas's arm. He let it weave down until it landed on Cas's bruised hand. He brushed across it tenderly, but didn't mention it out loud. 

Cas viewed the gesture inquisitively. “Act like what?” he asked. 

And, suddenly the man looked up and Cas could see it. His eyes were feral and glowing in the dim light of the room. In one motion, he swung himself onto Cas's lap, straddling him, putting a hand on the his neck, pushing until the back of his head tilted back onto the couch. Cas felt the strain on his windpipe and, the vice like grip expert and intense; he knew what he was doing. And the man's expression was animalistic as he pushed on Cas's neck, enjoying the small exhale that resulted. 

“Act like you're weak,” the man growled in excitement. But Cas looked up at him, face calm, his John's nails digging into his skin with his grip. But he kept a steady gaze on the man, saying nothing, his arms lying docile at his sides, palms facing up like an offering. 

“I'm here for you,” Cas said, his voice composed and assured despite the lack of air he was experiencing. “You tell me what you want, and I do it,” he said. 

And everything was still for a moment. Silent. And suddenly, Cas understood. 

He closed his eyes, swallowing. He'd do it. For Dean. Then, quietly, he whispered it: “Tonight I belong to you.” 

And, immediately the man's weight was fully on him as if in answer and he started grinding up against Cas mercilessly like he was claiming him. He let go of Cas's neck, grabbing at each of his wrists, pulling them upwards, trapping them at the top of the couch like cuffs. The John's movements lacked rhythm: reckless and frenzied, his breathing intense. Cas felt the heat violating him as it pooled in his stomach while the man worked against him unforgivingly, every movement affected with messages of power and domination. 

Then, the John leaned forward, nipping at Cas's earlobe, lightly at first. Then hard. Cruel. And Cas could feel the warm stream trickling down his neck where the man had drawn blood. And Cas found that his breathing increased, his palms tightening into fists by his side, using them to still himself as the man bruised and marked his body, purring at Cas's winces. He tugged at Cas's hair, almost ripping it out, using it to pull Cas's head back enough to reach his neck and lick the strips of blood free from his skin. 

And the man was fully savage when he finally ripped Cas's shirt in two, forcing Cas to bare his skin as his chest shook with tight tremors of breath. Cas inhaled when the man marked his back with long, dragging scratches, making Cas hiss with the pain. 

And he breathed heavily through his nose while his mouth, eyes and fists were tightly clenched shut feeling hatred and humiliation gathering behind his chest. Hatred for the way his own cock was hard and stiff like the man's, along with every muscle in his body. He'd been battered and dominated by men before, but not like this. Tonight he felt the anger building inside of him as the man worked more bruises across his skin, biting him 'till there were marks then slapping him across his face. 

And it wasn't the pain. Physical pain was an old friend. But there was something sinister in the way the man pawed at Cas, undoing his button and freeing his cock roughly from his pants. 

His John stroked him in solid movements till precome leaked from the tip. And Cas felt abused and raw as his body betrayed him and his mind tried to remind him that he was a whore. That he'd given himself to this. Freely. And yet, the man worked him, stopping just before Cas could come and kissing his mouth forcefully for the first time that night. 

And Cas knew the man could sense him. Could feel his resistance and pain. Could see it in his face. And it seemed to fuel him like he relished in it. Cas shut his eyes as if it could defend his body from the assault. Could stave off the waves of emotion pooling inside of him. Could stop the heat rising in his chest. 

And then, the man leaned forward and whispered darkly in Russian into Cas's wrecked ear: “It's not the money,” he said. “It's who you are.” 

And Cas moved to throw him off, but the man grabbed his cock, and he came, feeling the waves of it crashing through his body, violating him with the release as he painted his stomach and pants with come. 

And he grabbed the man, slamming him to the ground, climbing on top of him, hands shaking, tears forming at the sides of his eyes. And he wrapped his hands around his neck tightly, ignoring as the other man hit and clawed at his skin. And he looked into the man's eyes as he watched his light dim, then settle into the darkness, his hands thumping to his sides, muscles relaxing into oblivion and death. 

Cas stayed there longer than he needed to, breathing hard, hands squeezing the neck of the man's corpse, as if it could somehow take it all back. And finally, he stood, shakily, bare chested and covered in his own blood, and buttoned his pants up with unstable hands and turned. 

And the door was open, and standing in the frame, horror-struck, was Dean. 


	19. Shattered

It was Cas. Or a ghost of him. Bloodied. Shirtless. Broken and ripped to shreds as he straddled a body, hands wringing the dead man's neck like he was a rag doll. And there were bite marks on Cas's arms and shoulders like he'd been claimed inside some sick pervert's fantasy. But perhaps the most disturbing feature Dean noticed were the scratch marks that ran along Cas's back and under his shoulder blades, deep and jagged, the skin on the edges puffy and pink.

Dean swallowed. He could only see the back of Cas's untidy head of tousled hair, but he knew him anyway. Even if his frame was smaller than he'd been so many months ago. Even if he was bruised and streaked in red.

Dean had played out the scenario of finding Cas, secretly, inside his head over the months he was missing. And, as time passed, the fantasies got darker. At first he'd had dreams that he'd found Cas and the angel wouldn't forgive him. And those held their own kind of pain. But, soon he'd found himself wishing for the relief of those dreams when his nightmares morphed into flashes of Cas starving on the street, or Dean finding his body dumped in some forgotten ally.

But as grim as those moments had been for Dean, his psyche could never have predicted this. Could never have prepared him for it. He watched as Cas stood, weak-kneed and the air around them stilled. And Dean was anxious as he waited for Cas to turn around and look at him. He wondered briefly if he was brave enough to face what he would see.

And Dean watched him reach to his pants, and after a second he realized Cas was zipping and buttoning them back up. Dean's gun was at his side and he tightened his grip around the metal, starting to feel nauseous. He should probably say something. Tell Cas he was here observing him like a phantom. Instead, his words caught inside his throat, threatening to pull him under with the weight.

Then, Cas turned. His features were revealed to Dean in small increments, his eyes cast down to the floor, long lashes shadowing his cheeks. And Cas had dark strands of hair jutting out in different directions, a few unruly pieces plastered to his forehead in sweat. Cas's left cheek, though, was the faintest of pink on one side as if he'd been slapped there. And Dean watched as Cas stepped away from the body, looking wrung out, knees bent a little, before, finally, he looked up.

The light in the room was dim, but did nothing to dull the bright blue of Cas's eyes. And they were even more striking juxtaposed with the evidence of violence he wore. And for a second, Dean was lost in the reflective light. But, it was just that, he realized, as he disassembled the momentary pause. It was just a reflection of the real Cas. A hologram. Because it wasn't him. Not really. Dean could see the change, even hidden behind the shine in his eyes; It was as if the angel had been hollowed out and dumped in front of Dean to cruelly punish him for his sins. It was like looking at a nearly perfect replica of him. A wax figure. And Dean's chest punished him as he felt something die inside when he looked at the man who used to be Cas. And somehow he realized, nothing would ever be the same again.

“Dean,” said Cas, shattering the connection, finalizing the distance between them. And Dean thought he could hear the damage in the word. The shame.

Dean didn't know what to say or how to act. And for a moment, he forgot where they were. Forgot that there wasn't time to figure anything out.

“Dean!” Cas suddenly said, reaching up and pointing behind him, bringing him back to reality. And Dean turned as a huge man in a suit barreled toward him. On reflex, Dean turned, watching the man fall to the ground heavily before he'd even registered that he'd shot him in the forehead.

 _We gotta get out of here,_ Dean realized as he looked at the body on the floor. And it seemed Cas was on the same page, because Dean felt him pushing him through the door, urging him to move.

He might have shot someone else on the way to the car, but Dean wasn't sure. He was running purely on instinct, his mind tucked away in some form of self preservation. And, before he knew it, they were in the Car, peeling away from the mansion, speeding from the nightmare. Dean knew, though, just how forgone he was when he realized Cas was the one driving, plowing baby back onto the road, peeling out as he turned sharply, gaze focused intensely. And Cas's chest was still exposed, marked and raw, and Dean found himself scanning it briefly before he felt the need to look away. It was all wrong. All of this.

But time passed anyway, as if the world hadn't turned on its side and pitched its contents recklessly and irresponsibly, breaking down structure and order. And soon Cas was stopping the Car by a shady apartment building, resting his head lightly on the steering wheel, squeezing his eyes shut. Cas breathed deeply for a moment before lifting his head up, and looking in Dean's direction.

“Dean?”

Cas's voice was softer than it had been at the mansion. In fact, it had a timid quality to it, like a dog testing the waters with an angry owner. And Dean was sure Cas was looking at him with those eyes. But he couldn't bring himself to look back. Or to talk. Instead, he stared out the window as if hoping to wake up, hoping this was all just a mirage of reality. But, from the corner of his eye, he could see Cas's arms shivering in tiny movements from the cold of no shirt. And Dean braved a look at his bruised arm, covered in tiny goosebumps.

 _He needs a shirt,_ Dean thought, detached. And he slowly, mechanically, removed his jacket.

“Here,” he whispered, handing it lightly to Cas, still not looking up. Cas grabbed the other end of it, whispering a broken “thanks” in return before putting it on. Dean could hear him wincing lightly as the fabric hit his skin.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut tightly, holding his head between his thumb and fingers:

“We should probably take care of those cuts,” he whispered. And suddenly, he realized just how uncomfortable everything felt. _It's all wrong_ , he thought, and his hand tightened to a fist on top of his knee.

Cas nodded, then leaned forward, gesturing to the apartment in front of them.

“This is my place,” he said quietly, almost as if he were ashamed of it. And Dean looked at it again, thinking he understood why. The place was a dump. But he got out of the car anyway, surprised a little that his legs still worked and followed Cas, the two men's steps too loud as they echoed in the heavy silence between them while the climbed the stairs. And finally, Cas pulled out a key from his pants, opening the door, his movements stiff, probably in pain.

When he flipped on the light, Dean froze. He bit his lip almost until it bled. The room was tiny, sparsely furnished, and cold. And there was a shattered floorboard to his right and a dark blood patch staining the floor beside the bed, haloed with broken glass.

“Crowley must have taken the body,” said Cas blankly, and he shut the door behind them, serving to make Dean feel even more trapped. On reflex, he shuffled to the bathroom, grabbing a towel and wetting it inside the sink.

“Sit down and take your jacket off,” Dean said,searching the bathroom for supplies. He took what he could find and stopped just in front of Cas who sat obediently, half naked on the bed. Hesitantly, he sat beside him. With shaky hands, he started rubbing at the dried blood, freeing it from Cas's skin in flakes, trying to detach himself from what he was doing, trying not to register the places where Cas's skin was pierced with another man's DNA. Trying to stay clinical as the towel dipped in and out of each tooth mark from the other man while Cas squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lip to quiet himself.

And it felt like forever before he was done and Cas donned a shirt from his dresser, carefully and slowly putting it on over the ointment and coming to sit back down.

“We can stay here,” Cas said. And Dean knew they'd be sharing a bed. Normally, it might have felt strange, but how could it when they were so far apart right now? So, he said nothing when they both made their way to their respective sides of the bed, facing away from each other. They pulled the covers over them, but despite this, the vast space between their backs grew cold. And he knew neither of them would sleep as Dean stared at a piece of broken glass on the floor that shone in the moonlight.

And, at three in the morning, he felt the bed dip and heard Cas's light footsteps as he snuck out of his apartment and into the hall shutting the door behind him. It wasn't long before he heard the muffled sounds of him sliding his back against the door and to the ground. And it wasn't long before he heard the small sounds of his friend crying in the dark.

A buried part of him felt like maybe he should go out and comfort Cas. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Because, in truth, he was crying, too.


	20. Unclean

Crowley stood on top of an old building, the breeze ruffling his hair a little as it stroked his face in the dark. It was Cas's building. Old. Used. Forgettable. 

His toes peeked over the ledge as he looked down at the impala, a crease forming in his forehead. He hadn't expected Cas and Dean to walk out of the mansion together. When he'd seen the impala crash through the gates, it had taken him a moment to realize that both of the men were inside. Cas driving. 

And he'd taken them here. . . 

He watched the hood of the car, waiting, then after a few minutes, the doors finally opened, both men crawling out of the car like they were exiting a bomb shelter after an attack. And he saw it as they walked—not the relief of a long awaited reunion, but the look of two men so buried in shame and regret that they could barely see each other through the haze. _Something else happened in that mansion,_ he thought. There's more to this story. . . 

So, with one last look at the scene below him, he snapped his fingers and appeared inside the mansion again. It was chillingly quiet inside as he walked confidently up the stairs, lightly stepping over a body at the top. He looked down at the perfectly aimed bullet wound in the man's forehead, circled in red. 

_Dean,_ he thought, attributing the shot to him. It wasn't all that surprising to see Dean's handiwork. But, what was surprising was what he saw through the gaping double doors of the suite. Inside, lay a half naked corpse, eyes glossed and unblinking. Crowley walked forward noting the outline of familiar hands etched in bruises on the man's neck. 

_Cas_ . 

Crowley crouched down, elbows propped on his knees to get a closer look. He saw pink-red flecks of skin under the man's fingernails where he'd clawed at his aggressor, fighting in his last moments of life. 

The king of hell stood, eyes narrowing. Cas had killed the city's mob boss. Dean had probably even seen him do it. 

Stepping over an arm, Crowley noted some small specs of blood on the floor that looked like they didn't belong to the man. _Cas's blood,_ he thought, remembering the bruising he saw peeking out of the coat Cas was wearing when he'd exited the impala. 

Suddenly Crowley turned toward the sound of the front door opening, ominous footsteps in the hallway and the sharp sound of metal sliding against metal as the intruders cocked their guns. Crowley walked calmly into the hallway, viewing the men curiously. 

In front of him stood two tall, dark haired men. One of them was young, probably barely twenty. He clearly lacked the experience of the older man, his face showing hesitation as he paled at the sight of the body and held his gun up to his face apprehensively. The other man looked to be in his thirties and more confident, leading the charge and unconsciously shielding the boy's body with his as they walked. 

Crowley looked them straight in the eye as they traveled, unseen, and as his eyes locked onto the older man's as he found something familiar in the view. Crowley glanced at the dead body in the suite, then back again, realizing what he was seeing. 

_Interesting. . ._ he thought, watching the man curiously while he put the pieces together. And he leaned up against the door frame observing while the older man made his way into the suite, stopping in front of the body. 

The man's gun lowered first, then he fell to his knees, leaning over the body, hesitating briefly before he ran his fingers reverently across the bruises on the man's neck. And the boy stood uncomfortably in the background as the older man kissed the corpse's head and used his thumb and third finger to close the eyes. Then, he placed his gun behind him and used both hands to lightly scoop up the head of the dead man. And he pressed their foreheads together, closing his eyes tightly against the embrace. 

“Moy brat,” he said. My brother. 

* * * 

Morning came, unwanted. And the sun's rays were bold and mocking as they exposed each dark corner of the room leaving Dean feeling like he had nowhere left to hide. It was the brightest kind of nightmare, and he found himself wishing he could pretend it away. But the bed was hard and the room cold and last night remained visceral, haunting him. And he stared at the cracks at the bottom of the wall, sprinkled with salt, and listened to the dissonance in his breathing in regards to Cas. And he held his breath as he turned. 

Cas was awake. He looked back with a distant blue stare, and for a moment, they were both caught inside a web of silence. 

And Dean swallowed and mustered up the courage to finally look Cas up and down, slowly acknowledging the person in front of him in a way he had been unable to last night. But it was a dangerous exercise, he realized, to face Cas head on, accepting into reality the offensive nature of Cas's lacerated arms illuminated in the sunlight. And, despite himself, his gaze followed the damage, landing on the shadowed marks of foreign hands wrapped around Cas's neck. Unconsciously, Dean scooted closer. The bruises lacked subtlety, as if the man wanted the world to see his cruelty. And Dean couldn't explain the sudden urge he felt to wrap his fingers on top of each imprint, covering the outlines softly to make them disappear. To have the only reminder of touch on Cas's skin be his. But he thought about the way he'd found Cas last night, covered in blood, his belly streaked with his own come. 

And Dean clenched his fist and turned away, heart beating fast, closing his eyes. And he felt the fury grow inside him as he shoved away the alien thoughts that infiltrated his mind. He let his legs swing down from the side of the bed, toes flexing a little as they hit the cold floor, working to seal again the fact that this moment existed, even if it was in defiance of every rule that held his world together. 

It took longer than it should have to steady his breaths again when he felt a warm hand make its way to his shoulder. He stiffened, staring at it blankly, realizing how long it had been since he'd felt Cas's hand here. And he knew the angel was attempting to reassure him. To placate his pain with the familiar gesture between them. But the thing was, it didn't feel familiar at all anymore. 

* * * 

Cas let his hand fall away from Dean's shoulder where he viewed it distantly, and let it drop heavily into his lap. 

And at that moment, he accepted what he'd already known when he'd seen Dean's face inside the mansion. Never again would he see him as a brother. As a friend. He rubbed his thumb inside his palm, wishing he could scrub it clean, wishing he could use the friction to break down his skin and rip it away bit by bit until the disguise of humanity was stripped away and he could be Dean's angel again. Powerful. Useful. Clean. 

Instead, he'd given fragments of himself away until there was nothing left but illusion. Dean was right to be repulsed. 

Cas shifted a little on the bed noting that even his body rejected him with searing pain and stiffness. He stood, glancing down at a fading bite mark poking out from under his sleeve. Another wound. Possibly another scar, and Cas couldn't help but think for a minute that his body was like a canvas, permanently etching his sins into his skin like a brand. And he wondered if he'd ever be free of it all. Free from the phantom feeling of the man's hands around his neck or the dark pull of his body's arousal as the man whispered Russian insults into his ear. Cas took a deep breath as he realized his legs were shaking at the memory, bile forming in his throat. He wasn't ok. He knew that. But he also knew he didn't have time to process the trauma ravaging his body from last night, because logic told him that these might be the last moments he'd ever share with Dean. Because he knew now Dean would leave him. Couldn't forgive him. 

So, he looked at the back of Dean's head, memorizing the tufts of hair that were matted down where he'd slept and the curve of Dean's neck and shoulders from behind, trying not to waste time wondering why Dean was even here as long as he had been. Taking advantage of every second he had left with him before he was deserted to face his own punishments. Waiting for Dean to finally break the morning silence and let the spiteful thoughts he surely was experiencing about Cas fill up his lungs and release. And in the corner of his eye, he saw his phone blinking steadily next to the bed, stacked with missed Calls from Jess. 

_Say it,_ he thought, feeling guilt creep into his chest as he viewed the call history. _I hurt the people I'm near. Let me go._

And Dean took a breath, eyes still closed and stood. 

“C'mon,” he said, voice detached, “let's get you back to the bunker.” 


	21. Scratches

Cas watched Dean's muted expressions as he made his way to his closet. 

_Dean wants to take me home,_ he registered. 

And Cas felt a dull sting spread through him when he thought about the bunker. It was just a place, but somehow it had also become an an elusive symbol for him. A space he didn't belong. Something unattainable. 

And yet, here Dean was, flinging invitations casually, like it made sense to take Cas home. Like Dean hadn't been the one to ask him to leave in the first place. 

Dean opened Cas's closet with a creak and his eyes dipped down to the familiar beige trench coat and suit. Cas watched him unconsciously reach for it, then let his hand drop again, looking away. Cas swallowed, rubbing, then scratching at his palm again until it turned bright pink with the irritation, feeling an itch inside of him he couldn't seem to reach. And soon Cas was watching Dean pull out his backpack from the closet. 

“Is this your only bag?” Dean questioned, sounding numb. He pulled one of Cas's shirts down and stuffed it inside. 

Suddenly it dawned on Cas that Dean was packing for him like a child. But he didn't stop him. Even though a heavy part of him didn't want Dean to see him right now. His bruises and cuts. His clothes. His apartment. His life. Knowing it was all lacking. He was lacking. 

“Yes,” Cas whispered despite the growing unrest inside him that seeped its way into each movement of his thumb across skin. Cas didn't realize his toe was tapping as he saw Dean work, his hands wandering across the fabrics in his closet. 

And watching Dean work was like watching a distant hurricane on the horizon. How long would it take for him to realize what he'd said? To realize what it meant. For the gestures of guilt to pass and for Dean to recognize he'd made a mistake and send Cas away again. For the crashing waves of destruction to ravage them both and leave them forever in isolation. 

And he thought he spied the stirrings of it in the other man's face when Dean paused the in the middle of packing and stared at Cas's small sum of belongings. When Dean pretended not to notice a tube of lipstick that had fallen to the bottom of the closet. 

To say it was all uncomfortable wouldn't give it justice. Instead, it felt more like someone had stripped Cas bare and flung him into the mercy of the one person he didn't want to see him like this. Suddenly, irrationally, Cas was convinced that scorpions had invaded his skin as he clawed at the surface of it as if in an attempt to free them with his nails. And his phone blinked, Jess's calls demanding while Dean made his way to the drawers. He should stop him. But he wasn't sure which function of movement called to him more—to try and hold on to Dean, or to push him away first. 

And his nail drew blood on his palm, the red liquid leaking as if trying to release some of the pent up pressure in his head. And his ears buzzed, his skin cold. 

He didn't remember walking up to Dean and placing a hand on his arm, stopping him. But in a second, he was there, gripping the rough skin tightly, breathing unsteady as he stopped him in the middle of putting a pair of pants in the bag. 

Dean looked at him for the first time since they'd woken up, and his eyes questioned Cas before he looked down at the warm red patch on his arm from Cas's blood. 

_Dean will have to clean that off his arm later,_ an irrational part of Cas thought. _He's always cleaning up my blood. My messes._

And Cas's phone buzzed on the nightstand and he let go. He didn't speak, but Dean stopped packing, letting the bag slip to the floor, gripping Cas's hand and flipping it over to see the self inflicted scratches. 

“What the hell, Cas?” he said. 

But a knock came at the door. Cas pulled his hand free, heart beating fast. _What the hell. . ._ he repeated in his mind, agreeing. 

_This isn't how normal people act_ , he thought, staring at his hand like it had acted on its own. To be honest, it felt like it had. And he felt a little like he'd stepped out of his own skin and someone else was piloting his body. He wasn't ok. But he grabbed the backpack from the floor anyway, putting it on the bed before going to open the door to his apartment. 

“I can't pack yet,” he said over his shoulder in explanation, as if it made any sense. 

And he tried not to look at Dean's face as he went to the door and opened it. 

“Crowley,” he said. Of course. 

The king of hell glanced at Dean, pushing past Cas into his apartment, the sound of invading footsteps echoing in Cas's head as the demon walked. 

“Am I interrupting something?” 

Dean squared his shoulders, looking twitchy, like he was getting ready to reach for his gun. 

“Always,” he said shortly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

Crowley smiled, and briefly glanced at the half packed bag on the bed slyly then looked away. 

“Well then,” he said, “I'll be brief.” 

Cas watched Crowley sit down on his bed feeling anxious. He'd been looking for Dean. And now he had everything he wanted right in front of him. Cas shifted, his back aching for wings and his hands tingling in the absence of his angelic birthright. And he thought he must have seemed so small and broken as he stepped in-between Dean and Crowley, eyeing his angel blade that now lay under his pillow. 

But Crowley didn't even look at Dean. Instead, his gaze remained focused on Cas. 

“Castiel,” he said. “I was wondering if I might be able to have a word alone with you.” 


	22. Rot

Dean blinked, fists tightening. 

“Like hell, ” he said, wishing he weren't looking at the back of Cas's head, the view disturbingly reminiscent of last night. 

Crowley rolled his eyes and peered over Cas's shoulder at , looking mildly annoyed. “How predictable,” he breathed to himself, then addressed Dean. “Your boy wouldn't even be here to protect if it weren't for me,” he said, “and neither would you. And besides, I wasn't talking to you,” he looked back at Cas, one eyebrow raised as if waiting for his reply. 

A second passed before Dean heard Cas mutter a “fine.” Then he looked back tentatively at Dean almost as if he were asking permission. _No, forgiveness,_ Dean thought. And he laced his fingers tight behind the back of his head, squeezing at the pressure building there. He faced away from Cas, wondering at the ungrounded feeling in the bottoms of his feet like everything solid was slipping away through the cracks. 

But when he turned back, he was looking at empty space, listening to the click of Cas's front door, his eyes falling to the bag on the bed. Part of him thought about going after Cas and Crowley. But if the king of hell wanted to hurt Cas, he'd have done it already. Still, this _was_ Crowley; There had to be an ulterior motive for why he called Dean. And he was sure that the reason was becoming very clear to Cas right now as they met. 

_Will Cas even talk to me about it after?_ he wondered, feeling as if he barely knew him anymore. 

Suddenly, he realized he was pacing the room, carefully dodging the black stain of blood on the floor. Neither he nor Cas had bothered to clean up the mess last night. . . 

_What would the point be?_ he thought, _Cas is coming home._

But Cas's backpack sat on the bed as if protesting the idea. Dean looked around Cas's sparse apartment, viewing the thin walls, outdated light fixtures and old mattress. How could the man living here be the same person that pulled him out of the belly of hell and spoke to him with the voice of a god? Shattering glass not unlike the sharp confetti that crunched beneath his boots right now. 

He walked up to the bag, fingering the strap on the side, remembering when he'd given it to the angel, filling it to the brim with anything he could think of to set him up as much as he could. As if it made up for any of it. He'd felt sick to his stomach that night when he'd sent Cas into the pouring rain, but he thought he felt even sicker now that he saw the just how small the bag was. As if he could pack up the sum of their complexities, zip it up and send him off with a wave and a pat on the back. Tidy. Final. And he wondered if Cas had found it offensive. Dean did. And he suddenly wondered if it would have been more polite to spit in his face first. 

But his mind was dragged back to the man on the floor of the suite, the sound of Cas zipping up his pants, the tube of lipstick on the bottom of his closet. He pushed tighter against his skull with his interlocking fingers. Looked at the revealing clothes that were left hanging in the closet. And he wished he didn't understand what had happened after he'd shoved his friendship into a tiny container and bid it goodbye. Wished he wasn't able to put the puzzle pieces together. But he could. 

He looked at the creases in Cas's blankets where they'd shared a bed last night and decided he couldn't pack anymore right now. Instead, he walked to the door and opened it to an empty hall, trying not to wonder where the king of hell and Cas were having their meeting and shut it behind him, hoping it would curb the images crawling around inside his head. And he ran down the stairs recklessly, completely out of breath as he reached the lobby—if you could call it that, with its imaginary furniture and caged television set bolted to the corner of the room. 

The lights blinked, too, in unison with Dean's heavy breathing. And he was too hot as he took off his outer shirt, wadding it into a ball, hurling it at the wall. 

“Shit!” he cussed at nothing in particular, rubbing his palms against his eyes, up and back through his hair. “Shit, shit, shit!” 

He didn't want Cas to be with Crowley right now. He didn't want this to be Cas's life or who he was. And he didn't want to feel the guilt, shame and anger turning to rot in his gut. He had no right feel this way, and he knew it. But the pain was an invading force ruining him from the inside out. 

Nothing made sense right now. Not Cas. Not himself. Not the world. With the exception of one idea. One thing that he felt sure of, and it screamed in his head now, begging for Dean to act. 

He _had_ to get Cas home. No matter what it took. He had to get him home. 

Suddenly, the T.V. flicked in the corner of Dean's vision and he looked up at it. There wasn't any sound, but what he saw made him freeze, his feet going cold where he stood. 

In the middle of the screen was a close up of the mansion where Dean had found Cas, the walls colored with the red and blue strobe lights of police cars. Dean took a step towards the television set. 

“Shit,” he said again, lacing his fingers inside the metal grating around the T.V. 

They'd found the mansion. They'd found the guards. And they'd found the man that Cas had killed. 


	23. Viktor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More stress writing from the new job for you all ;) lol

Viktor watched the gurney bounce over the driveway cracks as his brother's body was wheeled away. He was covered in a white sheet thin enough that Viktor could could make out the features of Adrik's face pressed against the fabric, the lines and curves looking as if they'd been carved like a statue. That is until they moved his brother to a body bag and zipped him up with the final sweep of a gloved hand. And Viktor, too, put on the familiar mask of stone as he buried his grief deep down and replaced it with a need for cold logic and revenge. _The most dangerous men practice more control than the rest of the world,_ the memory of his uncle's voice echoed in his head. _Revenge first, feelings later_ , he thought to himself, not for the first time in his life; there was a reason he'd always been so effective, he acknowledged as pictures of the men he'd killed floated to the forefront of his mind. 

And the red and blue lights of the police caravan stained the atmosphere making it stark and uncomfortable. Almost as stirring as the dozen bodies that had accompanied his brother inside the coroner's vans, black bag after black bag turning trucks into massive, sterile graves. And it was all a spectacle of phenomenal proportions. A great, embarrassing fiasco, featured on televisions screens and scaled down to black and white photos for the newspapers. 

Normally, their organization would have found a way to avoid involving the police. _And the press,_ he thought, feeling stirrings of anger as he watched the camera's flashing lights at the edge of the property like his brother's death was something to gawk at. But there was no way of hiding this kind of massacre from the local P.D.. The press would be disastrous. But right now, Viktor found himself dismissing the importance of it in favor of the small Russian girl wrapped up in a blanket on the porch, speaking in broken English to a middle aged officer with a note pad. 

_So there_ was _a survivor,_ he thought, trying to make out her face through the shifting colors reflected across her skin and shiny hair. He glanced at the uniform she wore. _She's the servant,_ he thought. And he walked deliberately toward her, the officer's words beginning to become clearer as he neared in proximity. 

“Is there anything you can tell us?” he heard the man ask. But Viktor looked at the woman's furrowed brow and tight fingers clutching her blanket. And he watched the cop talk through her, his meaning landing on deaf ears as she said “I can't,” and “I don't,” growing more and more agitated in the midst of the interrogation. 

Viktor stepped closer. “She doesn't understand you,” he said in a deep voice behind the man, giving his accent free reign as he talked, leaving no doubt that he was foreign. Then, he rounded the man to get a better look at the girl. 

The cop glanced at Viktor briefly then looked back at the woman and sighed. “That's obvious,” he said, letting his notebook drop in defeat, his frustration weaved into his tone. 

Viktor adjusted his shirt discreetly to hide the firearm lodged inside the back of his pants, the cold metal flush against his skin. “Mind if I try?” he asked. 

The officer looked at him skeptically, but finally relented with a tiny nod when he glanced down at his empty notepad. He moved to the side a little to allow Viktor access to the woman. 

The first thing Viktor noticed was her tear stained face as he approached. He looked into her eyes directly and knew he had never seen her before. He could see the lack of recognition in her eyes. _Good,_ he thought, _She must have been new. Adrik always did like new things._

“I am here to ask you some questions,” he said, speaking to her in Russian, his voice controlled. And she looked up into his eyes, seeming to calm a little at the prospect of being understood. 

“Please,” he said, “tell me what you saw.” 

And suddenly, she was speaking quickly, letting the blanket slacken as she frantically related to him the events of the night in Russian, letting one hand peek out from the material to point and use her hands to talk while the officer beside them furrowed his brows, confused. 

And she told Viktor about how Stas (Adrik's right hand man) had brought a man home with him. Dark haired, handsome and strong with bright blue eyes. And Viktor found himself mentally making a note to get her a sketch artist. 

But there was a second man, too. One that came after. As she described him, he could only assume he'd been the one to shoot Stas clean in the forehead, the shot expert, lacking hesitation. 

“So these two were the leaders,” he said aloud, but more to himself, “and how many other men were here?” 

She blinked, looking confused, shaking her head. “None,” she said, finally. “Just them.” 

Viktor furrowed his eyebrows and turned back to the officer. She wasn't making sense. 

“How were the guards killed?” he asked the man, his voice demanding. “Were they shot?” 

Perhaps there were snipers hiding in the trees? But, to Viktor's surprise, the police man shook his head. 

“No,” he said, “broken necks. All of them.” 

“All of them?” Viktor asked, his tone coming out harsh and skeptical. That couldn't be right. He looked around at the media frenzy, thinking of the body count. Breaking a man's neck was personal. You'd have to get close enough to each heavily armed guard without alerting any of the others. 

He looked again at the house, thinking of the wreckage left behind by the mystery men and he held out a hand for the servant to follow him. She took it gratefully and they began to walk away. 

“Wait,” said the officer, calling after them. “What did she say? 

Viktor didn't even bother to turn back around. 

“She hid in the closet when she heard the first gun shot,” he said casually in response. “She says she didn't see anything.” 

_Two men,_ he thought to himself again as he walked, feeling a sense of unrest about the idea of anyone brave enough to launch an assault on one of the mob's most heavily armed fortresses with such a tiny kill squad. He was clearly dealing with experts and he'd need to plan accordingly. 


	24. Complicated

Dean had every possession that Cas owned packed neatly on the mattress in the middle of the room by the time the he got back. Even including the half hour he'd taken to go buy the luggage. 

When Cas arrived, Dean felt relieved to see him walk in alone, the door gently opening to let a patch of sunlight shine through the crack and grow with the motion. And Cas peeked his head in tentatively, his eyes roaming the barren apartment and landing on the bed. 

Cas opened his mouth to say something, but Dean cut him off. 

“We need to go,” he said, slinging one of the bags over his shoulder, walking towards the door. 

Cas furrowed his eyebrows, not moving until Dean reached him. But suddenly, Dean felt the heavy weight of Cas's arm stopping his chest from going through the door. 

“No,” said Cas quietly. 

Dean dropped his hand a little, letting the bag slip to the floor, making a loud thumping sound. And he was close to Cas's face, breathing in the long-absent scent of him. He was close enough to see the curve of the angel's nose and the small worry lines that hid in the folds near his eyes. 

“No?” Dean said. “What do you mean, no?” 

And Cas closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as if gathering his nerves. When he opened them again, his face was set, features determined. 

“I'm not going,” he said. 

Dean raised his chin in challenge. “I saw it, Cas. The police found the body at the mansion and they ARE going to find you. I've packed up all your shit from this hell hole of an apartment and I'm taking you home. Now get your ass in gear and go grab the rest of the bags, I'll meet you in the car.” 

When the words erupted from Dean, he tried not to think about how much he sounded like John right at that moment, ordering Cas around. And it made him uneasy to have a little insight into his father's reasoning for being so controlling over them as children. Like Dean had done any better at taking care of Cas. _Or Sam,_ Dean thought, as he recalled the danger he'd allowed his little brother to get wrapped up in over the years. 

But, he didn't miss the small dip in Cas's expression when he slandered the apartment. Still, there was no room to analyze it. It was time to get back. Dean moved to push his way past, but again, he was met with resistance as Cas moved his body to block Dean from leaving with his possessions. 

“No,” Cas repeated. “You're going. I'm not.” 

And Dean thought Cas looked defeated as he said the words, his shoulders sagging as he picked up the bag and moved to take it back to the bed. But this time it was Dean stopping Cas, grabbing his arm, then quickly letting go as Cas winced against the deep bruise that Dean's thumb had landed on. 

“If you think I'm leaving you here, you're an idiot,” said Dean, straightening his back. _Not again,_ his mind supplied, but he didn't say it out loud. He reached for the bag, too, and suddenly, both men were grasping at it, fighting for leverage like it was the last life raft between them. 

And Dean looked into Cas's eyes. Saw the determination and the steady resolution. 

“I'm staying here,” said Cas. And the tone reminded Dean of Cas's days as an angel, the teeth and claws of his former power attached to every word. 

_He's serious,_ Dean thought. The idea hit him with a heavy sense of unreality. He looked to Cas to dispute it. To change his mind. Instead, Dean was met with resolution, and he wondered how a man who'd been so victimized could stand tall, demanding respect. Even as Cas's hand was pierced with the long gashes of his own nails. _They're worse,_ Dean realized as he looked at them. And he felt the strong desire to pry Cas's hands away from each other forever then pick him up and throw him in the impala. 

Instead he set his jaw, turned away, walked to the other side of the room and punched the wall. 

And when he looked up again, there was a hole where his fist had hit, a long crack growing from the center. His knuckles were red and stinging profusely, his blood etched into the valley of chipped paint and dry wall. 

He regretted it immediately. But when he turned back to Cas, he didn't look angry or afraid. Just sad. 

Cas walked to Dean, hesitating as he got close to his labored breaths. Then, to Dean's surprise, he watched as Cas came closer, leaning in to Dean's face. 

“Go home,” whispered Cas, his voice breaking. 

And Dean was unconsciously grabbing the top of Cas's arms with his hands, holding him tighter than he should have: 

“No.” 

Cas's face fell like he'd been newly injured, but, he finally nodded, seeming to understand Dean wasn't going anywhere. Seeming to understand it didn't matter what he said. And he untangled himself from Dean's hands in silent acceptance, going to his nightstand and grabbing his phone. 

“I have to run an errand,” he said finally, walking to the door. And Dean knew he couldn't argue. Cas was letting him stay. That might be all he got for the moment. So, he watched his friend leave for the second time that day, trying to figure out how to keep Cas safe when he refused to let him. How to protect someone who insisted on staying here with a target on his back. 

And he realized he hadn't even asked about Cas's conversation with Crowley. Dean shuddered when he thought of the king of hell. It made him uncomfortable to be so close to the man, and the reasons he'd been avoiding Crowley for the last few months came to the forefront now. And the whole thing left him with an even greater sense of urgency to free Cas from whatever was going on between the two of them. 

_How have things become so complicated?_ he wondered. Crowley. The police. Drug lords. 

Dean sighed, trying to find a way to compartmentalize as he grabbed his jacket from the bed. He would worry about the other shit later. Right now, his only concern was Cas. 


	25. Recon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, @kelzebub for inadvertently inspiring me for the setting for this chapter. Even if I didn't consciously realize I was using your idea. ;)

Cas stepped off the bus and walked to the little coffee shop on the corner of the street. It was a beautiful spot that had been in the city a long time, tall trees shading the outside tables in the summertime. But today the wind blew, the trees vacant of leaves that had deserted them many months ago, leaving only the thin, vein-like twisting arms. 

The door to the shop dinged as he walked inside, the rush of the air ruffling his hair as it closed again. Jess was sitting at a corner table, two coffees in front of her with white clouds steaming from their tops. She was dressed in a warm coat and scarf, stirring her drink with a thin, red straw. 

_Last time I saw her, I killed a man,_ Cas thought, halting in the moment before she saw him. But he'd come here to help if he could, even if that meant facing another person he'd disappointed. So, he took a few strides forward, assembling courage with each step. 

But, when Jess finally looked up at Cas, her smile warmly greeted him as if there was no-one in the world that could bring her more joy to see. She stood, running to him, wrapping her arms around his chest tightly. 

And he breathed her in, closing his eyes, letting the warmth of the room and her body seep into his chest for a brief span. And he was smiling. Weakly, but genuinely as they sat back down at the table and Jess pushed one of the drinks toward him. 

They were sitting across from each other, drinking coffee, Cas still in Dean's borrowed jacket. He suddenly realized the lights were low enough to hide the marks on his neck. And Cas couldn't help but think how normal they looked as he registered the four other people at the shop. No one was looking. No one knew their sins. 

He took a sip of his coffee, relishing the rich, bitter taste on his tongue and swallowed, feeling the hot liquid fill up his chest and spread across him like a blanket. 

And for a moment, it felt like the world wasn't ending. Like the small space they shared was safe from Cas's thoughts of the King of Hell, or of being arrested or killed. Or of Dean. Instead, for a second, they were two friends, sipping warm drinks in the cold of winter, listening to the soft music play in the background as the man at the front wiped down the counter. 

But the spell was broken when they were close and he saw Jess register his wounds. And, in turn, his eyes traced the remnants of his friend's black eye. This close he could see her fingers fidget against her coffee cup. 

“I'm sorry I took so long to get back to you,” he stated, sympathy creeping into his voice. 

But Jess's brow was creased with worry, her eyes not leaving the marks on his neck. Cas reached up and flipped his collar up, raising his shoulder's slightly to hide his injuries. “Shit, Cas. . .” she exhaled. 

“It's nothing. . .” his voice trailed off as he blinked away the rising emotions that started to bubble up. “Are _you_ ok?” 

Jess swallowed, pursing her lips. Cas knew she was worried about him. But she wouldn't press it. It was nice, in a way, to have someone that could potentially understand. That knew when not to say things out loud. 

Finally, Jess shook her head, letting her eyes drop to the half-full cup in front of her, then dart back to Cas. 

“Not really,” she said. “Cas, I just want to understand.” 

Cas looked at her earnestly. “What do you want to know?” 

Jess leaned back in her chair, pulling her jacket tighter around her before she began. “The Demons” she said, “they knew you. . . they kept saying you were human now. And then, you pull a freaky looking blade out of your floorboards, and,” her voice dropped as she leaned closer and emphatically whispered, “you killed him.” 

She pulled the red straw out of her cup and began twisting it between her fingers, her head dropping again. “I know I don't deserve an explanation,” she finally said, “I should just be grateful you saved my life. And I am, but. . .” 

Cas smiled sympathetically. “But sometimes you need answers,” he finished, feeling his throat constrict as he said it. 

Jess nodded. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Anything,” Cas said. 

“Did you used to be a demon? They kept saying you didn't used to be human. So, did you used to be. . . one of them?” 

And Cas closed his eyes against the light, wrapping his hands around the outside of his cooling drink. 

“In a way,” he said quietly, taking a long swig to wash out the vile taste forming in his mouth. “I wasn't a demon by name, but I'm not convinced I never acted like one.” 

Jess looked taken aback. “So, there's more things out there than just demons,” she exhaled. And Cas noticed that her knee was bouncing nervously under the table. But she didn't look scared of Cas, even if the idea of more supernatural creatures did seem to unsettle her a little. “Who were you?” 

Cas looked up at Jess, surprised at her candidness and her question struck him. She didn't ask _what_ he was. But who. 

Cas swallowed. “I was an angel.” 

But, he disliked the way the words felt in his mouth, and Jess's face was unreadable as she took a sharp breath in surprise. And he thought he understood what she was feeling. He didn't look like an angel right now. He'd even felt like a liar when he'd said it. 

But, to Cas's surprise, Jess didn't look at him with despising eyes. Instead, she reached across the table, dragging one of his hands lightly towards her. She flipped it over seeing the marks on his palm, knowing they were different from his other scars. 

And she ran her fingers tenderly along the outside of the deep impressions. Cas stiffened, feeling unsure of the affection. But her fingers wandered, expression without judgment as she worked, until Cas felt his muscles relax a little. Finally, she looked up at him: 

“I think I always knew you were.” 

* * * 

Ivan sat in the dark of his car watching the man and woman inside the coffee shop. He looked at the paper on his passenger's seat, studying the portrait sketch lying there. Then, he glanced back at the man through the glass. 

_It could be him,_ he thought, lifting up the drawing for comparison. And he lifted the camera hanging around his neck, taking quick snapshots of the both the man and woman inside, zooming in to get a better look. 

But, the boss hadn't mentioned anything about the girl. _Also, if it is him, where's the other man?_ he wondered as he glanced at the second drawing in front of him. 

Then, he suddenly noticed something curious. In the parking lot was a black car with a man inside it. It was too dark to see the features. _It could be another one of Viktor's men,_ he thought, acknowledging he didn't have every company car memorized. 

Still, the model seemed older. A classic maybe? Not something that seemed like a particularly good choice for blending in. 

It was a stretch, though, and he knew it. It's not like the two men had arrived together. But he couldn't deny how the man in the car had arrived shortly after, suspiciously staying in the car. As if he were watching them, too. 

_It's just recon,_ he reminded himself, wondering why he'd been briefed for this assignment like he was facing an army and not two slightly above-average looking men. But the orders were to not engage, so instead, he wrote down the license plate of the shadowed man in the car and pulled out his phone, then hesitated, setting it back down. 

And suddenly, he thought just how lucky he would have to be to have found the men in the first eight hours. Too lucky. He narrowed his eyes. He'd better make sure it was them. It was best to check facts before acting when it came to Viktor. The man had an ugly temper. 


	26. Warning

Dean got lost on his way back to Cas's apartment. Music blared through his speakers, his windows up as if he were trying to hot box himself with the waves of sound. And he was speeding, feeling torn about the fact he'd left Cas at the cafe, part of him wanting to go back and follow him. But his stomach churned at the thought of the young, beautiful brunette caressing Cas's hands, looking at him like he was a work of art. 

And he tried not to picture Cas having sex with her, the way he'd tried to erase the thought of him with other men when he'd realized Cas's profession. But he couldn't then, and he couldn't now. 

Suddenly, Dean found himself in an abandoned part of town near an old, industrial plant. He pulled over sharply almost slamming into a gated off fence with a faded warning sign tacked onto it. Dean put his palms over his eyes tightly as his mind betrayed him with images of Cas in bed with other people. But the most disturbing thing, he thought, was that it wasn't the pictures of exposed skin infiltrating his mind that got to him. It was the way his psyche constructed Cas's face, over and over again, looking at the brunette the same way she'd looked at him. Looking at the other men that way. 

Dean realized what he was feeling wasn't normal. It shouldn't be this personal. But, somehow it was, in a seething, infuriating way. And he felt ashamed of it. And bitter. No, this wasn't “normal.” And yet, Dean couldn't deny the stamped out memories that attested that this was familiar. He'd felt this before. With Cas. When he'd watched him die. When Cas had lied to him about working with Crowley. When Dean had sent Cas away. 

And at that moment, Dean was forced to admit that Cas had a way of illiciting intense emotions from him, even if Dean didn't fully understand them. He clenched the steering wheel tightly before letting his head drop, pushing his forehead against the curve of it, pressing hard. 

He stayed that way for awhile, then finally, lifted his head, letting his chest settle into a more natural cadence of breathing. _Swallow this shit down,_ he thought to himself. There were bigger problems to face. He needed to get back to Cas. 

Dean reached down to his ignition, gripping the cold keys dangling there, the notches of the metal digging into his binding grip. 

And that's when he saw it. Far enough back that someone else probably wouldn't have caught it. But Dean did, even if it took him longer than it normally might have. 

He adjusted his mirror to be sure, squinting into the darkness behind him, pausing as his eyes landed on the faint outline. Dean grabbed his gun, cocking it then slowly got out of the car, staying close to the side, shielding himself with it and waited. 

It took a moment, but soon enough he heard the door of the other car open and shut, footsteps shuffling closer to him as he listened to the sound of another gun being cocked. 

“It seems you're more perceptive than I thought,” came the deep Russian accent of the man. 

Dean held his gun close to his face, trying to decipher what kind of shot he could get in a place so dark. And he heard the man walking closer, slowly. His gate sounding almost casual. 

“I almost followed the brown haired one at the cafe, but my curiosity got the best of me,” he said. “And I couldn't do both.” His voice came out sounding equal parts bored and disappointed. And Dean's skin itched at the thought that he left Cas there, vulnerable where the Russian could have followed Cas and killed him. 

And the man came into view, Dean's heartbeat quickening. He was average in height with a twisted nose as if it had been broken before. The Russian raised his gun, aiming it at Dean's face. 

They were at a standstill, both men with weapons raised. Dean planted his feet, his eyes murderous. 

“I guess I picked the wrong man,” said the Russian, noting Dean's expression and expert grip on his gun. He narrowed his eyes as he saw Dean's face twitch a little at the mention of Cas. 

“Ahhh,” the man goaded, “now I think I'm starting to understand why I found you stalking your partner on a date.” The Russian took a step forward and Dean tightened his grip on his gun. But the man didn't seem deterred. Instead, he looked at Dean seriously, letting his chin dip in feigned concern. “Have you told him yet that you want to fuck him?” 

Dean's jaw clenched, his fingers twitching against the trigger on his gun. 

The Russian braved another step forward. “He looks like the kind of slut who'd be into it,” he said darkly. 

And suddenly Dean didn't care if the man's gun might go off if he shot. He didn't care if it was stupid or reckless. Or if he ended up with a bullet in the middle of his forehead. Instead, he looked at the man, fury balling up in his fingertips. And he shot. 

It was slow motion as watched the body drop to the ground. Felt the familiar buzz of the blaring discharge in his ears. 

It was eerily quiet and dark after, as death could be. And the muscles in Dean's hands ached when he realized his gun was still in the air. 

When the sound died down, he grabbed the man by the wrists, dragging him behind the abandoned building, stuffing him against the cement wall and moved his car to a hidden spot inside the gates. 

Dean didn't even have blood on his hands when he was done, but he felt filthy anyway. And when he got back into his car, he was shaking, squeezing his hand in an attempt to make it stop. 

And he pulled away from the makeshift graveyard, glancing at the warning sign up on the fence one last time, wishing it had come ten months earlier inside the bunker when he'd sent Cas out into the pouring rain. 

But it was too late for that. He was too late. 


	27. Mercy

When Dean got back to the apartment, Cas was already there, methodically unpacking all of the bags, lining the empty shells up neatly along the side of the bed.

Dean surveyed the room, realizing it looked different. The bed was made and the glass cleared away from the floor. Not only that, but the dark blood stain was a faded as if Cas had scrubbed it raw.

 _This must be what it looked like when Cas came home to it all those nights_ , he thought. And he suddenly felt a small amount of remorse for the way he'd talked about the apartment. It wasn't impressive. It wasn't even nice. But it was Cas's. And Dean thought he finally understood that as he surveyed Cas's detailed work at trying to repair the place.

But the light caught on the cherry colored blood stain on the floor, mocking Dean. And he wondered if anything could truly be clean again as he thought of the way it had felt to slide the Russian's eyelids down with his thumbs to blanket the vacant way his eye's caught Dean's

Thankfully, though, the memory was broken up by the sight of Cas's eyes, blue and brilliant, gazing up at Dean with a sense of innocence and purity. Dean suddenly thought of Cas, standing marked, beaten and nearly naked in the mansion. His eyes had been brilliant then, too, but Dean had judged them hollow anyway.

Dean clenched his jaw tightly and started to think.

“Where were you?” Cas suddenly asked. The question wasn't demanding. Cas was sincere. Concerned.

 _God, he's worried about_ me, Dean thought. He placed the palm of his hands on his temples, squeezing tightly.

It had been a long night. Dean felt the fatigue of a weary body, but even more present was the continuous heaviness that accompanied his psyche. The ten long months of worry, looking for Cas. The cold marks of strangers' touch on Cas's skin. The girl. The body.

But, even Dean's exhausted soul peaked at Cas's question: Where were you?

Where were you? Dean repeated in his mind. The question was innocuous. And Dean was sure it had been unintentional, but the implications were tremendous.

“Where were you?” Dean repeated to himself quietly. He addressed the question to his boots, smudged with mud, wondering if he'd left his footprints stamped into the dirt alongside the Russian's corpse.

And Dean's reaction made Cas pause. He set down another empty bag, taking a step toward Dean. “I went to see a frie—” he started to explain, but stopped when he realized Dean wasn't looking at him. Wasn't talking to him.

“Where were you?” Dean said again, looking at Cas, feeling his chest tighten as he did. “Fuck, Cas. . .” he started, and he was blinking repeatedly and swallowing as if there wasn't enough moisture in the world to satiate him right now.

And suddenly, he could hear the hushed drone of the old light fixture above his head, steady and low. It filled his skin and body as he planted his feet beneath it.

“You could have died tonight,” Dean said then pursed his lips. And he rubbed his fingertips together by his sides, thinking he could feel the gun powder residue drying out the surface of his skin. And the smell was in his nose, acrid and vile, reminding him of the sickly odor of the hundreds of bodies he'd burned.

Cas looked back at Dean, eyebrows furrowed, understandably confused by Dean's words.

And Dean was looking at Cas, holding his gaze as he finally let himself say what he was really thinking: “Where was I?”

Cas froze, and Dean thought he could see the understanding find him. And he didn't let himself look away, even if it killed him to tether himself to the guilt he felt when he really looked at Cas through the fog and confusion.

“Where was I?” Dean said again, taking a step toward Cas, moving into his space.

And Cas moved his head back and forth in small increments as he listened to Dean's confession, saying nothing, as if his words were too weighty for a response. But he shook his head “no” anyway, eyes protesting Dean's words as if to release him from his act of cruelty. As if to refute it.

But Dean couldn't stop saying it, over and over. “Where was I? Where was I?” And soon the question became more demanding and violent until he was right next to Cas, forcing himself to face him. Feeling the sparks of energetic release around them as he vomited his confessions like an accusation, the fire building and burning away at him, making him want to yell into the void.

Suddenly, though, just when he felt the need to scream, felt the demand of release inside his throat, he felt his knees give way, the tension dispersing into the air around them.

And he fell down, kneeling in front of Cas, staring at the curves of his stomach through his shirt as Dean felt his steam run out.

Finally, it was a whisper when Dean said the words for the last time, his lips trembling as he knelt on the ground.

“Fuck, Cas,” he said, his voice breaking, “where was I?

It was a moment before he felt the warmth of Cas's hand resting lightly on the top of Dean's bowed head as if he were blessing him. Dean closed his eyes tightly, breaking beneath the gentle touch.

And it felt like such a long time before Cas finally spoke.

“I forgive you,” he said. And Dean could hear it in his voice. Sensed the sincerity. Cas meant every word.

And Dean let his head fall onto the angel's stomach, Cas holding him there lightly.

“I'm so sorry,” Dean said, the words muted in the folds of Cas's shirt.


	28. Let's Do It All Again

Cas looked down at Dean kneeling in front of him. It was a strange kind of offering to have him bent on his knees, pleading for forgiveness in the only way he knew how. 

And Cas felt the short strands of Dean's hair sifting between his fingers, marveling at how close they were, Cas feeling the press of Dean's forehead across his stomach. It was calming to have him close, even if Cas knew it couldn't last. But he could steal it now. Even if he knew Dean's apologies were unnecessary; In all the months he'd been alone, he'd never blamed him. Never felt anger or resentment towards Dean. No. Those things were directed at himself. He knew he had lost the ability to help Dean. To be useful to him. To fulfill the purpose he'd been created for. 

What was an angel who couldn't defend? Who couldn't serve? Who couldn't protect the things he loved? 

But Crowley's voice rang inside his head, haunting him. 

Cas's conversation with the King of Hell had been short, but it would be a lie if Cas hadn't thought about the impact it had had on him. Especially right now with Dean below him, apologizing for his neglect. Like it wasn't warranted. Like he'd been the one who'd sinned. 

But Dean couldn't hear that right now. Wouldn't see the truth of the situation, even if Cas could feel it like a heavy weight on the crest of his back. Always present. Talking to him and through him. Reminding him that his wings used to be there, visible in the waning light, before they'd been plucked away like the petals on a flower. Now the space was filled with empty scars, hauntingly absent from the human eye. From his own eye. But he knew the damage was there. Even if, like Dean, he couldn't see it. Knew he was tainted. 

And he looked down at Dean, acknowledging the real hurt he'd caused him. He had to think about Crowley's words and admit their merit, even if he didn't trust the man. But he had no choice, did he? 

He played Dean's words over again in his head: _“You could have died tonight.”_

Cas knew something had happened. He'd probably put Dean in some kind of danger again. Cas closed his eyes. It wasn't an ideal hope, but Crowley had at least offered him a possibility in a place where he felt none. Cas's head dipped a little as he thought about how quickly he'd wanted to yes. Again. How he wanted to let Crowley make good on his offer and clean up the mess Cas had made. Cas looked at the ceiling, knowing deep down he couldn't trust Crowley. Not when he hadn't named his price up front. The King of Hell didn't swoop in and save the day without a cost, even if he did claim to offer out of goodness of his heart. 

No, Cas knew there would be a reckoning for trusting Hell. There had been last time and he'd ended up dead in a lake. 

He stepped back a little, glancing down at Dean's face as he looked up at him, eyes pleading. _Maybe this time it can be different,_ he thought. Because this time it wouldn't be for heaven, or for the souls in purgatory. This time, it would be for Dean. 

* * * 

Crowley walked beside Viktor's large frame, stalking him unseen as the man slammed the door to his car and walked to the dusty gate. The King of Hell let his fingers slide across the twisted metal wires, feeling the smooth dip and bump as his skin washed the surface while he moved. But Viktor was walking fast, following another nameless Russian through the fence and to the other side leading him to his discovery. 

And the men stopped beside a chipped cement wall, staring at the strange position of a body crammed against it like a sack of grain. Doubled over and starting to swell. 

Viktor surveyed the scene with a look of calculated composure. 

“When did you find him?” he asked, his tone formal. 

“He didn't check in to me, so I activated the GPS on his car. Tracked him here,” said the other man. 

Viktor's jaw tightened. “And you're sure it's them?” he asked, crouching down to the corpse, methodically starting to clean out his pockets. 

And Crowley watched as the second man nodded, starting to walk deeper into the abandoned facilities, waving for Viktor to follow. 

“I'm sure,” he said when they'd reached the car. The man opened the door, pulling out the camera from the inside, holding up the digital screen to the sketch artist's paper for comparison. “I'm sorry, sir,” he said as he handed them over to Viktor. 

Viktor was distracted, though, thumbing through the camera's archive, studying the pictures of Cas inside the cafe carefully. 

“The girl?” he asked, finally glancing up. 

But the other man shrugged, looking over his shoulder at her. 

Crowley sighed. _Oh Cas,_ he thought, studying the pictures, too, recognizing the girl from the apartment. 

He glanced away and walked to the car, peeking inside at a white piece of paper poking out from between the seats. Crowley reached down with his thumb and index finger and tugged at it. He slowly read the numbers to himself: 

KAS 2Y5 

_Well, Dean_ , he thought, pocketing the license plate number, feeling it crumple in the seams of his coat. _It's a good thing I'm not quite ready for them to find you yet. You're a bit off your game._

And Crowley's phone buzzed against his hand, lighting up the dark tunnel of his pocket with the muted electronic glow. He pulled it out, viewing the name on the phone with a satisfied look. 

“Hello, Castiel,” he said, answering it. 

And it was silent for a moment before Cas spoke. 

“I'm in,” he said, doing a poor job of hiding his distaste for the decision. “What do I have to do?” 


	29. Welcome to Canisbay

Cas hung up the phone, feeling a sour curl in his stomach. Crowley represented the only option right now. Still, his tongue felt immediately laced with regret. He moved to pocket his phone and go back towards his apartment building. He'd made sure that he was outside for this call. Away from Dean. 

But Dean wasn't an idiot. He would probably know something was up. 

Cas's walking sped up, hoping if he got back fast enough it might ease Dean's suspicion. He might think Cas had just needed a moment to clear his head after their. . . discussion. 

But his foot never landed on the cracked and tilted pavement of the steps outside his complex. In one quick movement, his foot was pressing down into soft muck of the outdoors, ankle deep in grass. 

Cas lifted his shoe, now coated in a sheen of brown mud. And, in a moment, his mind flared with clarity as he shifted his arm in an attempt to draw his angel blade to his hand for an attack. 

But it took him a moment to remember his weapon wasn't there. And he glanced at the space inside his palm, empty and weak. His eyes darted around, looking for something to defend himself. _Where am I?_ he thought, realizing he was alone in the dark of a lush green field surrounded with a thicket of trees. He tried to look at the constellations to gain his bearings but the sky was dotted with thick, gray clouds making it impossible for his human eyes to see the stars. 

But, he noted the humid way the air pasted to his skin. _I'm a long ways away,_ he noted, growing suspicious. 

Then, he saw the lights in the distance, the murmur of voices and music drifting to this ears. _Bagpipes?_

Cas started walking warily towards the lights and sounds, noting the way the mud clung to his clothing and the way laughter and music grew louder and more boisterous the closer he came. Soon he could see tents and crowds of people dancing, laughing and drinking through the trees. 

The first thing Cas noted was the way the people were dressed. Their clothing was outdated—women in country dresses with corsets, men in leather vests and boots. 

He looked down at his jeans and t-shirt furrowing his eyebrows. But he stepped through the clearing anyway, letting the firelight fall in flickered patterns across his skin. 

No one bothered to acknowledge him as he weaved in and out of the inebriated crowds, eyes peeled for weapons or signs of an attack. But the further he walked, the more convinced he was that no one meant him harm. But his opinion quickly changed when he noted Crowley's familiar figure at the center of a long wooden table, laughing boisterously and downing a tankard of ale. 

Crowley's eyes caught Cas's and he tilted his head to the side, motioning for Cas to join him. Slowly, he made his way to the table cautiously sitting down. 

“Castiel,” said Crowley, uncharacteristically patting Cas on the back. “Welcome to Canisbay! Here, have a drink. Everyone, this is Castiel. He used to be an angel, but now he's a whore!” 

The crowd laughed at Crowley's “joke,” echoing Cas's name in welcome. Cas leaned back as a drink was shoved in front of him, the dark liquid spilling over the sides of the top. Cas looked at Crowley questioningly. _Canisbay. . . Where have I heard that name before?_ he thought absently. But he didn't have time to dwell on it because suddenly the crowd had eyes fixed on him as they each thumped the table with their fists. The table shook and shuddered each time the onlookers pounded the surface yelling “drink, drink drink,” on repeat. 

“I think they want you to drink,” whispered Crowley sounding amused. 

Cas looked down at his mug. Warily, he grabbed it and took a timid sip. He swallowed and the crowd cheered as a result. _How strange,_ he thought as he let his drink fall to the table again and watched the crowd begin to lose interest. 

“What is this?” Cas finally said to Crowley, still warily eyeing the crowd. “Did you take us back in time?” 

Crowley leaned forward giving Cas an incredulous look. “You're joking right? Or have you genuinely forgotten that only self-righteous angels have that ability?” 

Cas shook his head, feeling defensive. “Of course not,” he said plainly, “But I'm sure you have your resources.” 

Crowley snorted, taking another gulp of ale. “Not like that I don't.” 

The king of hell looked over the crowd with a smile, the orange firelight hitting the skin of his cheeks as he removed his black jacket. 

“No,” Crowley said, almost as if to himself. Like his mind was far away. “We're not in the past,” he said “These people,” he gestured the the bodies in front of him, “they come here every year to celebrate. To remember.” 

Cas looked at the King of Hell questions rapidly forming in his mind. But there was something so subtly authentic in the way Crowley surveyed their surroundings. Reminiscent, almost. Cas wrapped his hands around his mug feeling unsettled as it suddenly dawned on him where he'd heard Canisbay before. _Of course,_ he thought, feeling even more uncomfortable, _Crowley lived here as a human._

Cas glanced at Crowley's shadowed face. “Why am I here?” he asked, letting his hands fall down into his lap as he talked. 

And he noticed the King of Hell's gaze fall on his open palms, vision scanning the surface of the broken skin there. Cas made his hands into fists quickly covering up the incriminating marks. But, to Cas's surprise, Crowley reached over, lifting up one of Cas's hands, holding it up to the light. 

“This,” he said quietly, “this is why you're here, Cas.” 

He held up Cas's palm to the his eye, making him look at it. “Last time I saw you, you looked like the bad end of a dog's chew toy,” he said, leaning back into his chair, voice raising to make sure he could be heard over the mob. 

“This, though. . .” he said, shaking his head, leaning closer to Cas. Crowley tapped his finger on Cas's forehead pointedly. “Something is broken in there.” 

Cas grabbed Crowley's wrist, shoving his hand away, feeling anger starting to build. And the King of Hell smirked in his face. 

“Deny it all you want,” Crowley said, “But you're not alright.” 

Cas glared at Crowley, feeling his insides start to itch again, balling his hands in tight fists, though to stay his hands or to hide them he wasn't sure. And suddenly the woman next to him knocked over his drink, spilling it across his lap, mumbling a drunken “sorry” before reaching down to wipe it off. Cas grabbed at her wrist roughly as her hand wandered too close. When he released her, he could see the pink outline of his fingers pressing too roughly into her skin. 

“See?” said Crowley, taking a drink casually. Cas let the woman's hand go, swallowing against the need to hit something. He tapped his foot under the table nervously, feeling confined inside the tiny space at the table. 

Crowley saw and rolled his eyes. 

“Fine,” he said, snapping his fingers. 

And immediately the music stopped. The lights faded. Cas was standing back at the front of his apartment with Crowley, the night fog starting to creep in. And he noticed the smell of charcoal from the old factories, potent again to him after months of growing accustomed to the stench of burn in his nostrils. But the shadows were by far the most stark contrast to the scene they'd just left. Instead of light and laughter, he was surrounded with the dark shine of grimy water in the gutters and sirens in the distance. 

“There,” Crowley whispered, as he let Cas re-acclimate. “Home.” 

Cas blinked up at Crowley, feeling the heaviness of his life fall again on his shoulders as he looked up to the light streaming down from his bedroom window where Dean was. And it started to rain in small icy drops spiraling through the air with speed like they were meant to cut and not to cleanse. 

Crowley stepped closer to Cas, face serious. He glanced up at Dean's silhouette in Cas's window, knowingly. 

“Maybe it's time you start to have your own life. Drink. Laugh. Live.” he said pointedly. “Why do you think I took you to _my_ home tonight?” 

Cas gave him a confused look. But he thought he understood when Crowley looked again at the window. Immediately Cas's mind flashed with the image of Dean on his knees, _“Where was I?”_ ringing through his head on repeat. 

“Sorry doesn't take it back, does it?” Crowley suddenly said coldly, as if he knew Cas's thoughts. 

Cas backed up a little, listening to the shuffle of his feet on the ground. 

“I never held it against him,” Cas challenged, even if, for the first time, he thought he sounded like he was convincing himself. 

Crowley put his coat back on, buttoning it up slowly. 

“Yeah,” the King of Hell finally said to Cas darkly, “Well maybe you should have.” 

And Cas watched him walk away, wondering only vaguely why the King of Hell didn't just teleport. 

“I'll be in touch about the Russians,” said Crowley over his shoulder. 


	30. Empty Vials

Cas's steps were slightly unsteady as he walked back upstairs to Dean. When he got there, he paused at the door, noting the way the last hour had left his mind eerily devoid of noise. Like he'd been scrubbed clean and sterilized. And yet, the whole experience left him feeling anything but fresh. 

Cas paused at the door, hesitating as his hand gripped his doorknob. Dean was inside waiting for him. Probably pissed to hell that he'd been gone so long. But instead of rushing to Dean's side, Cas's feet felt frozen in place. 

He pulled his hand away, feeling unsure about going back and facing Dean. And he picked at his palms again, wondering if the answers he was seeking might somehow be buried beneath the creases of skin in Jimmy's vessel. 

_Jimmy's vessel,_ he thought. God, it had been a long time since he'd let himself think about his body that way. His face belonged to another man. Ironic really, he realized, when he thought about how he'd spent the last ten months selling his body to other men. His broken hands weren't his. Not his chewed up flesh. Not his desires or appetite or even his orgasms. 

“Maybe it's time you start to have your own life,” Cas whispered, repeating Crowley's words. 

And he suddenly acknowledged he had no idea what that looked like. His life had always belonged to someone else. As an angel he'd taken and executed orders, and as Winchester he'd followed Dean's lead. Cas swallowed against the lump forming inside his throat as a sudden realization hit him: 

He may not have always been selling sex, but he'd always been someone's whore. 

The Russian had said it to him as he'd abused him. Just like the others. Like the man had recognized Cas as a conquest that had already been conquered and dominated throughout history. 

Cas leaned his head against the door, feeling heat creeping up through his cheeks, feeling light-headed and dizzy. 

And he suddenly heard Dean's voice drifting through the thin walls to his ears. 

“No, Sam,” said Dean, his voice sounding heavy. “He's fucking stubborn as ever. It's taking everything I have not to knock him out and stuff him in the trunk.” 

Cas swallowed, feeling uncomfortable. There was silence as Dean listened to whatever Sam was saying on the other end of the phone. 

“Yes,” Dean said quietly in response. Then, after an excruciating pause, Dean said softly,“He said he forgave me. . . But it's one thing to forgive someone. It's another thing to trust them again. I would know.” 

Trust. _Do I trust Dean?_ Cas questioned, squeezing his eyes shut against the pressure headache building behind them. 

_Sorry doesn't take it back,_ Crowley had said. Like he knew something. Like he understood. And, standing behind the safety of the door, Cas could admit it; the King of Hell was right. 

Dean turned him away. Dean abandoned him. 

Cas pulled his forehead away from the door, feeling a strange surge of dizzy haze circulate through his brain. His knees began to buckle as if he'd had a small dip in his blood pressure, leaving him weak and unstable. 

He gripped at the sides of the door, clutching at the frame tightly, ignoring the small splinters stabbing into him as he pressed the worn wood. And his vision spun as he thought about how Crowley had lied about why he'd been looking for Dean. 

But, as the fever built behind Cas's neck, he had a sudden epiphany. _It was for me,_ Cas realized. _Crowley did it all for me_. _So I could see the truth. . ._

Cas felt piercing anger growing inside him. And he forced himself to say it. Even if it was quietly, in the privacy of his apartment hallway. 

“Dean will never be there for you,” he whispered, his voice breaking, his mouth moving as if someone else were saying the words. “He's just another person to own you. To play you like a pawn.” 

Cas balled his hands into fists, biting back a scream forming inside his throat. His stomach felt violated as it burned red and hot, seeped in fury. And his body shook with chills like a fever as his legs started to shake beneath him. He pounded his fist on the door, feeling nauseous, his vision beginning to blur as if he'd indulged in too much alcohol. 

_Maybe I should sit down,_ he thought vaguely as his knees started to earnestly buckle underneath him. But it was too late, because a second later, there was a loud thump on the ground as his elbow hit the cold floor, his body collapsing underneath him. Cas's legs gave a small spasm as his eyes started to roll up into his head. 

Vaguely, Cas wondered if he might be dying. And yet, the thought strangely didn't seem to upset him. Instead, he found that he wasn't worried about the crisis of his body right now at all. 

And in a second, Dean's hazy form was opening the door to the apartment, leaning over him, his face frantic. Dean grabbed Cas, lifting him up off of the ground and carrying him to the bed, echoing “Cas,” in futile bursts as if the he could answer. 

But Cas lay limp, even as the world around him faded into unconsciousness. Even as he wished he could push Dean's hands from him. Even as he wanted to tell him to get away. 

* * * 

Crowley looked at his watch as he meandered from Cas's apartment, feeling the empty glass vial in his front pocket press against his chest. 

He was still a bit heady and relaxed from the alcohol. But even still, he found himself smiling as he thought about how successful a task it had been to redirect Cas's mind. To infiltrate it. One sip of the witch's potion and Cas's walls started to come down like Jericho. He saw it start in Canisbay where Crowley had let Cas see into his past life. Building trust in the midst of vulnerability. 

And then, poking at the already raw wound. Dean. It would be awhile before Cas got back on his feet—those potions could have some nasty side affects. But, when he did, Crowley would be there. And the King of Hell felt fairly confident he knew what would be greeting him. 

_Sleep well, Castiel,_ Crowley thought to himself, and he started to whistle as he walked through the fog. _I'll be seeing you soon._


	31. No

Dean wrung out the cold soaked wash cloth into the sink and left the bathroom, flipping off the light as he did. He walked towards Cas, pulling the disturbingly warm used rag off Cas's forehead, replacing it with the new one. Cas's head twitched a little at the new sensation, but he didn't open his eyes. He barely ever did. Not since he'd wandered back from the cold of the outside two days ago, collapsing on his own doorstep with a fever of a hundred and one.  


Dean looked down at Cas's, noting the way his hair clung to his forehead in fevered sweat and the way his chest hitched with each labored breath. Dean sat down in the chair next to Cas's bed, tempted, again, to take him to a hospital. He tapped his foot anxiously, wondering what was more dangerous right now: a police filled clinic, or Cas's relentless fever.  


Cas turned his head speaking mumbled words into the pillow in his sleep. Dean reached over and tugged his blankets up towards Cas's chin, unimpressed with the thin material of the comforter. And he found himself reaching up toward Cas's face timidly as he slept, Dean brushing the back of his knuckles gently down the skin on his cheek. 

“Wake up, Cas,” he plead again for the hundredth time. 

When Dean finally pulled his hand back, he rubbed at his eyes, knowing, without looking in a mirror that he looked like shit; For all the sleep the angel had been getting, Dean could barely bring himself to close his eyes. And he was starting to feel the affects as he battled against the dense heaviness of his limbs weighing him down with undiluted fatigue, his elbows propped on his knees. 

He hadn't been this exhausted since the threat of the apocalypse. And he hadn't seen Cas like this since then, either. Dean grabbed one of Cas's arms as he slept, noting how different he felt now than he had then. Wondering if he would ever be free of seeing Cas suffer. And it terrified him even more to note how much more precarious Cas's situation was now. Because Cas was human. Fragile. 

“Cas. . .” Dean said, though the name had nothing attached to it, almost as if he were hoping that talking to him in the throws of his fevery hallucinations might somehow tether them together. Tether Cas to life. 

“Anmwe! Anmwe!” 

_No, not again,_ Dean thought.

Cas jerked under dean's hands, starting to thrash against his restraint. 

“Anmwe!” Cas yelled, “Non! Non!” 

And in a second, Dean was draped over Cas, holding him down, marveling at the strength he had, even in his sleep, as Cas clocked him in the face before Dean could successfully bind his wrists to the bed with his weight. 

“Cas! Cas it's me,” Dean said, trying to calm him. But his voice was drowned out in the midst of Cas's vocalized nightmares just as it had been every time since the first night it had happened after Cas collapsed. 

“Votch,” Cas said, frantically kicking his blankets off as he spoke, “Net! Net!” 

Dean watched ruefully as his fingers bruised a ring around Cas's wrists as he struggled, wondering if there would ever be a time where he would stop hurting Cas. And his eyes drifted to the trash can in the corner of the room where he'd noticed a pair of Cas's pants wadded up and thrown away the night before. 

It had taken Dean a moment to realize why Cas had thrown them away before he recognized them from the mansion. He tried to push the image of Cas's dried come splashed on the front from his mind as the bed quivered while Cas thrashed. 

Dean knew it would end. It was mentally easier now to wait the nightmares out than it had been when Cas had first started having his violent fevered delusions. Because Dean knew it wouldn't last forever. Knew that in a minute Cas would slow and his face would slip into slack exhaustion. 

But it wasn't easier emotionally. In fact, Dean admitted that it got harder every time he heard Cas start to sleep talk in tongues, drifting in and out of nameless amounts of languages. 

Dean understood some of it, though, when Cas screamed “No,” over and over again as if finding a new language might make it so someone would hear him. Would understand him. Would come to him. 

_The way I never did,_ Dean thought, loosening his grip on Cas as he started to go limp, his words turning softer until they were just a whisper into his pillowcase: 

“Tidak. Ne. No.” 

No. In the end it was such a small, pleading word, as if hoping someone might take pity on the gentle, broken way it was uttered. 

Suddenly, Cas opened his eyes, briefly, his pupils swallowing Dean in their cool depth. 

“Cas?” Dean said, hopeful. It had been so long since he'd seen blue. 

But, in a moment, Cas's eyes slid shut again heavily as his ear collapsed against the pillowcase. 

Dean swallowed, leaning in to place his palm on Cas's chest calmingly. And he watched his fingers rise and fall with Cas's breath. 

“I'm here,” Dean said, hoping it was enough. 


	32. Lines

Dean could tell when Cas's fever broke. The gloss across his skin faded and his breathing began to even out while curled and matted portions of Cas's hair dried in gauzy strands on his head. 

Dean breathed out a concoction of relief and exhaustion as the worry settled inside his body. Cas still wasn't awake, but at least there was hope, and Dean had never felt so grateful. 

His head dipped to Cas's mattress, letting his eyes close. His body ached from lack of sleep, his mouth dry. Suddenly, he felt a heavy need to climb up into the bed and sleep. Dean's eyes followed Cas's slack arm to his hand laying palm up toward the ceiling, peeking out from under the blanket. 

Tentatively, Dean pulled the covers back all the way so he could examine the scratches in Cas's skin. Cas's fingers involuntarily twitched at the onslaught of cold air. 

“Cas,” Dean breathed, looking at the way the skin had started to pull together and heal into jagged pink patterns across his hand. And Dean looked up to Cas's neck, noting the smooth, clean lines of it. No bruises. Only the faintest impression of teeth marks. 

He was healing. Somehow in the midst of his nightmares, Cas's body had started to find a way to stitch itself back together again. Like Cas's humanity didn't understand that the angel's mind was hemorrhaging inside its confines. 

Still, Cas's nightmares slowed to a stop as the fevers broke, and Dean thought his face had begun to look peaceful as he slept. The light from the bathroom was on and the soft glow dispersed across the room giving it a false sense of safety and serenity. 

Watching, Dean felt the urge to stop time. Like if he dug deep enough he could find a way to grab the angel and they could fall away from themselves together. Fall away from this moment. From the world and from the pain. 

He pictured again the girl in the coffee shop, her small hands cupping Cas's between them, fingers grazing across the piercings on Cas's palms that mockingly hinted at religion. Christ. God. The themes that had failed and deserted them time and again. 

And suddenly, Dean's hand twitched in a desire to reach out for Cas's. It was small, but the pull was there, confusing Dean's sense of boundaries and order. 

He knew deep down it was a violation of trust. He wasn't even sure what it meant, but he felt drawn to Cas, the pull magnetic, calling Dean closer to him. Like he'd be able to finally breathe if he could feel Cas's heat. Even if it was small. His hand. His head on his chest or shoulder. Something viable that broke the rules and the subtle lines of separation that held them at bay and apart from each other. 

But Dean curled his fingers retracting them from Cas. He may not understand his own emotions, but he felt sure of one thing as he looked at the fading lines of brutality on Cas's skin. No matter what he felt, he couldn't act on it. Cas deserved the support of a friend. Not another person to prey on him. 

Still, his hand hovered in the air for a moment longer than it should have, until there was a knock on Cas's door and Dean let it fall. Heavily, he stood up and made his way to the sound, pulling out his gun and opening the door warily. 

Sam raised an eyebrow as he glanced at Dean who tiredly fixed his gun on his brother's forehead. 

“Hey, Dean.” 

Dean lowered the gun as he let himself give a small smile, going to hug Sam. 

“You came,” Dean said, unable to hide the relief from his voice. 

Sam looked at his brother, eyes showing small signs of worry as he backed away from their hug. 

“Of course I came, Dean,” he said. “How is he?” 

Dean's gaze lowered to the ground as he lightly pushed the door open to let Sam view the sleeping Cas. 

Sam's mouth opened a little, eyebrows furrowing in concern at what he saw. 

“His fever broke,” Dean said quietly, tiny sounds of hope breaking through the weary declaration. 

Sam nodded, giving a small smile of encouragement. “That's good,” then, “you look tired Dean.” 

Dean nodded back as the silence grew for a minute. 

Then, Sam leaned against the door frame, pursing his lips together. 

“Dean,” he said, “Let's go for a drive.” 

Dean looked back at Cas's sleeping form, already shaking his head. “I can't,” he started, but after a moment he felt Sam's large hand on his shoulder in reassurance. 

“He won't be alone,” said Sam, motioning to the hallway as Dean noted Charlie's slender form walking up to the door. 

Dean nodded as she made her way into the room, trying to ignore her pained expression when she saw Cas for the first time. 

And she looked at Dean, swallowing. 

“You need a break,” she said, without saying hello. And it wasn't a question. It was a statement. Like she could see the weariness in his eyes. In his soul. And Charlie sat down in Dean's spot next to the bed, grabbing Cas's hand like it was the most natural gesture in the world. 

“I'll watch him,” she said gently. “He's in good hands.” 

There was an overly long pause and then, “Ok.” 

Good hands, Dean thought tiredly, forcing himself to walk to the hallway, trying not to wince at the sound of the door clicking shut behind them. 

I'll be back soon, Cas, he thought, feeling the need to think it, even if he knew it was just for him. A reassurance he wouldn't abandon him. Never again. 


	33. The drive

They were again in confines of the impala, together, as if they'd gone back in time to the hundreds of hours Sam had spent with his older brother inside the cramped rolling metal box. And despite the representative familiarity, Sam could tell things were different now. 

He glanced away from the steering wheel to catch a glimpse of Dean's exhausted frame, slumped against the seat beside him. He'd seen it back at the apartment—Dean's heavy gate, feet barely lifting from the ground. Sam had seen Dean tired on a number of occasions. His older brother had a way of pushing against his own limits and capabilities. It was actually something Sam usually admired about Dean. He never gave up. But this wasn't just the weariness of a few lost hours of sleep, Sam acknowledged as he thought of the way Dean had looked back at Cas's unconscious figure—his brother's eyes hollow, coated with a keen sense of worry. 

_Not without cause,_ Sam noted, as he listened to wind start to hit on the roof of the impala in thin sheets. Cas was in a bad way. That was clear to Sam when he'd seen him. And, for a friend, it was worrying. But for Dean. . . 

Sam knew some of what had been going on since Dean had finally found Cas. What Dean would tell him, anyway. But coming here, he realized there were still missing pieces. Like the blood on the floor, or the broken glass Sam had noticed in the wastebasket. . . 

Dean looked predictably nervous as they drove, glancing back at the direction of Cas, tapping his fingers against the door as if to drown out the sound of the wind. 

“He'll be ok with Charlie,” Sam said comfortingly, not knowing if it would have any kind of calming effect. 

Dean nodded with a twitch, running his hands across his face. “I know that,” he replied, not bothering to be furtive as he glanced back again, biting his lower lip. 

Sam slowed as they reached a quiet side road, and pulled over to the side of it, under the dull yellow shine of a flickering street lamp. He shut off the engine, letting the heavy whistle of the wind permeate through the thin rooftop. 

They'd done this before, enough times that it had become a conditioned response for them to know that pulling over the car meant they were about to delve into something. Sam looked at Dean, waiting for him to look upset, or get defensive. 

But he knew things were precarious when Dean didn't appear surprised, or even angry. Instead, his older brother stared at the wavy clear lines of dewdrops snaking across the glass of the window. 

“It's been bad,” Dean spoke first, still staring outside. “I know what you want to know, and I'll tell you now, it's been really bad. I. . .” he paused, “I'm figuring some stuff out. . . too late.” 

Dean's voice was laced with shame. Sam chose his words carefully. 

“Like maybe that you care about him?” Sam provided tentatively, pausing to wait for Dean's reaction. When there was none, he continued. “Maybe,” he said softly, “that you're worried about him. . . as more than just a friend?” 

Sam tensed for the defensiveness, for the yelling, but it didn't come. Instead, Sam watched Dean's head fall to his chest as he squeezed his eyes shut. 

And the wind blew hard against the side of the car, piercing against the metal in broken screeches. 

“How long have you known?” Dean finally said, eyes still closed. 

Sam swallowed, feeling that each of his words were dangerous right now, but knowing intuitively that his silence was more so. 

“A long time, I think,” Sam finally said, his voice scratchy. 

And, to Sam's surprise, Dean opened his eyes finally, nodding as if in a motion of acceptance. 

“That makes one of us,” Dean said quietly, finally looking at his brother. Sam smiled lightly, but when it wasn't returned, he dropped it. 

Then, suddenly, “He's a whore, Sam.” 

“Dean—” Sam started, but his brother cut him off. 

“No,” he said, “You don't understand. I'm not calling him names. I'm literally stating the facts right now. Cas was so desperate. So alone. So fucking helpless, that he turned to prostitution to survive. Do you even know what that means?” 

Sam froze, still processing what Dean was saying, feeling even more unsure of what to say next. Getting his brother to admit to his feelings was one thing, but the situation was deeper than Sam could have imagined. Without including the situations with the Mob and Crowley that Dean had told him about over the phone. Or the way that Cas had suddenly taken ill. 

Sam swallowed, choosing not to answer Dean's question. 

Dean continued anyway: “It means I drove him to other people. To people who used him.” He looked away. “To people who hurt him.” 

Dean laughed bitterly, “and you know what the worst part of it is?” he said. “ _I_ was angry. I was actually angry, as if I had any right to be. . .” 

Pursing his lips, Sam waited, starting to realize the conversation was getting away from him. 

“Are you angry now?” Sam asked. 

And there was a pointed pause. 

“Only at myself.” 

The car became eerily quiet, after that, broken up only by the angry sounds of the wind's futile attempts to tear the car in two. 

“I just want him to come home,” Dean said finally. 

Sam nodded. “Ok,” he said. “Let's go get him.” 

And, for the first time, Dean smiled gratefully, even if it was brief, nodding as his brother started the car and turned them around. And they didn't say anything else on the ride there. Didn't speak as they climbed the steps quickly, Dean's face set and determined as he opened the door. 

But when they ran to the bed, Cas was gone, Charlie on the floor. 

“No, no, no, no, no,” Dean said, dropping to Charlie's unconscious figure, shaking her awake. 

“Who?” Dean said quickly, as Charlie's eyes opened. She clutched at her head, glancing around quickly, as she slowly sat up. “Who did this to you?” Dean asked, his voice frantic. “The Russians? Crowley?” 

Charlie leaned up against Sam's chest as he moved to steady her from behind. And Charlie looked hesitant. 

“No, not them,” she said, quietly, still holding her head. “It was Cas.” 


	34. The Dog, the Horse and the Sheep

The smell of the streets was sharp. It wasn't refuse, really, or even the burn of the factories. It was a stronger sense that the living things housed inside this city were dying here. Like it was cursed. And tonight the sensation overtook Crowley as the smell of misery kicked up against the translucent cotton candy wisps of fog hanging over the streets. 

And dust billowed from his toes in small clouds as he whistled, adding to the eerie chill. He was the only sound here, even if he was anything but alone. Crowley looked down at the numerous people crammed against the crumbling walls of abandoned buildings. Standing. Sitting. Laying down, and dead. 

The loneliness was thick here. A hospice for the city's unwanted and forgotten. A place for after the tears, anger and bargaining. Where people flocked to release a sense of identity and collapse under the weight of pharaoh's load. 

Crowley walked, letting the notes ring in melancholy as he whistled the folk tune of Canisbay. The tale of the bone broken horse who couldn't find its way home. Who got trapped in the thick of the mud and whined through the night 'till they found her dead in the morning. 

Crowley broke up the fog with his knees. Whistling. Walking. Calling them to him like a flock of starving sheep, their emaciated eyes peering up at him as they slowly stood on unsteady limbs. And he could hear the shuffle of their steps behind him, gathering like the sound of drumbeats as they grew. One. Ten. Tweny. A hundred. 

A hundred men and women humming along with his tune as if they'd known it since birth, sound collecting and reverberating off of the old brick walls. An army of the destitute for his purpose. Not an army. An offering. For the beast. His beast. 

And he stopped. The sound of the gathered people behind him halting in bated silence when, like a curtain, the fog split for the man, knowing him to be unnatural. The man at the end of the street. Who used to have wings but now looked like a walking corpse as he made his way to his creator. 

“Castiel, you're awake.” Crowley said as Cas looked at him, eyes red-rimmed and unfocused. Even his pupils had developed a crimson hue, like a dog's would in the right light. Crowley could only hope the spell had made him that compliant. 

Cas looked at Crowley with a darkness the King of Hell could relate to. And, as Crowley scrutinized Cas's face, he felt almost sure it had worked. Felt almost sure he'd bent him to his will. But, loose ends had cost him purgatory last time. Thus the crowd. 

“You're here for me,” Crowley said, half question, half statement. 

Cas paused, looking disoriented for a moment. But it was brief and quickly faded into resolve as Cas nodded in consent. “For you,” he repeated mechanically. 

“And Dean?” Crowley asked, stopping. This, he knew, had been the hardest task. To find a way to pry Dean from Cas's psyche. Crowley had done what he could at the mansion to ensure this. He only hoped it had been enough to plant a seed of doubt. 

Cas didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate. “No Dean,” he said. “Just you.” 

Crowley smiled approvingly, circling Cas, looking him up and down. At his strong arms and jaw. At his red, demon-worthy eyes. Cas held himself like a soldier, even in the cold of the night, mind emptied and filled with Crowley's will. Or so he hoped. 

“Time to be tested, Cassie” he whispered in Cas's ear, stepping away from the crowds of people, gesturing towards them with an open palm. 

“Prove to me you've left yourself behind,” he said. “Left them behind for me.” Then, he pulled a man from the crowd by his wrist. The man looked dazed by Crowley's spell, willing and unfocused. An easy target. Innocent. 

Crowley leaned in closer, relishing the new scent of compliance. If Cas were his, this would prove it. He'd know. 

“Kill him,” he whispered, licking his lips. “Kill them all.” 

And he waited. Letting the moments slip by as the order sunk in. Staring at Cas's pink-slashed hands, knowing the second they moved it would be over. He would be his. 

Cas's fingers twitched as he raised his hands hesitantly, placing his palms on the side of the man's head, eyes level with the derelict’s. It took time. Longer than it should have. Enough that Crowley tensed, starting to doubt it had worked. 

Then he heard it—the crack. Saw the man's head twist as Cas broke his neck with precision and efficiency. And the body fell to the ground at Crowley's feet. 

The King of Hell smiled. It was done. 

“Welcome home Castiel,” Crowley said, stepping over the body as Cas moved to his next victim, eyes hollowed. Focused now, though. Like only a man drained of sense of self and given a mission can be. 

“ _The devil heard her cry_ ,” Crowley started singing again as Cas worked, some small voices joining with him in the fog, thinning slowly as the bodies fell beneath his hand. 

“ _And still alone, and cold she'd die_.” 


	35. To Adrik

Viktor cut into his steak as he took in the soft music and lighting of the restaurant, basking in the unreality of it all. He'd always found this place unsteady, like a dream. Because it lacked honesty; it wasn't soft, here. Not in the slightest. There were rooms in the back that made the slaughter of his meat look humane. And he couldn't help but think of them as the red juices fled from his steak with every cut. 

This place was a sanctuary for Viktor, with its secret tilts and fraying threads. Like at any moment it could unravel. Like him. But it never would. He never would. Because that was how a place like this was built. Twisty and askew, but only to those who knew it well—the imperfections nailed directly into the infrastructure of the whole. Secret, integral parts of its steady existence. 

So,Viktor moved to take a bite of his food while his guards looked on, grounding himself in the power of his rituals, even if taste had abandoned him long ago. 

And he grabbed his tumbler, raising it in the air, noting the patchwork patterns on the outside. 

“To Adrik,” he said quietly, the motion feeling empty as he addressed the vacant table, food cooling in front of him. 

The men behind him, quiet up to now, echoed his sentiments, toasting the memory of Viktor's brother without a glass. 

But he didn't drink, not yet. Instead, Viktor found himself peering into the murky depths of his alcohol as the liquid picked up the pin pricks of lamplight from the wall. And he pictured the dark haired man draped across his brother's body, wringing the life from him as he struggled. 

He'd done that to other men. He knew how slow a process it could be. To deprive someone of air like drowning them as they writhed beneath your hold. But unlike drowning, there was no water. It lacked the poetry and depth of the ocean. It was raw and personal to choke someone to death. Viktor would know. 

_To Adrik,_ he thought bitterly, finally raising his glass to his lips as a door opened in the back of the restaurant. 

“Viktor,” said the man, coming up to his booth. Viktor motioned for him to sit. The man complied, looking pleased with himself. 

“Well?” asked Viktor calmly, waiting for the update. 

The man leaned forward. “I found her,” he said, smiling wickedly, eyes shining in the lamp light. He tilted his head up, pride seeping from his words. “And you'll never believe where,” he said, his accent thin, almost American. 

Viktor grew impatient, staring daggers into the man. “Where?” 

There was a slight pause, and then: 

“The woman at the cafe is one of ours,” he said, turning behind him. He nodded at one of the guards in the back, and, a moment later, a brown-haired woman was pushed forward into the room, hands and mouth bound. She struggled against the guard's hold, but he easily held her small frame still. 

“Viktor,” he said, still smiling. “She's a whore.” 

Viktor opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off. 

“And that's not all,” continued the man. 

He reached into his pocket, tugging out his phone. He pulled something up onto his screen, placing it in Viktor's view. A video. “This was taken ten minutes ago by one of our informants on the south side,” he said, pushing play. 

Viktor squinted through the dark, amateur recording of an alleyway filled with people. Either the sound wasn't working, or the event was too far away, because the video was eerily quiet. And it took a moment to understand what was happening, but slowly, Viktor started to notice the bodies falling to the ground, one by one as a dark figure snapped their necks in the fog while they waited for it, like an execution line. 

“Wha—” Viktor started, but the man held up a finger, “wait for it,” he said. 

Then, he paused the video, using his fingers to zoom in on the face of the killer in the street. Viktor swallowed. 

He stood quickly. 

“We need to get there before the police do,” he said, grabbing his coat from the seat, putting it on as he walked, his men following behind him. 

And he didn't bother to glance back as he barked the order to his men: “Bring the girl.” 


	36. Rain

The streets were cloaked in fog, hiding the dark things of the night behind its whisps. Hiding the monsters. Hiding Cas somewhere inside their depths. 

Dean barreled baby's bumper through the thick patches of it, not knowing where to start. Sam sat next to him, Charlie in the back seat, and at some degree it was comforting to know they were there. But the calm couldn't sustain itself, the way the clouds barely shied away from the beams of his headlights. 

And he wasn't even sure what he was looking for, as he thought of Charlie's account of Cas's feral eyes. Something wasn't right, and now he was wandering the streets. Weak from the days of fever. Alone. Again. 

Suddenly, Dean found himself wishing to god he could split the heaviness that held them separate. Part it like the red sea. 

But still it collected, more present than ever. 

_I'll find you Cas,_ he thought, eyes stretching across the midnight terrain. _I'll pull us from the dark._

* * * 

By the end it was all blood. Soaked in the blue evening light, the fog only thicker now. After a few bodies had fallen, Crowley had given Cas a blade and let him paint the alley walls. 

He looked at Cas, his pupils red like the demons of old, his darkness thickening and growing. And it gave Crowley a conflicted sense of resolution to finally own the angel that held him captive. 

And Cas was kneeling on the ground, covered in the streets. In dirt. In ash. In the sticky substance of death, streaks of red dripping down him like rain. 

Crowley walked over to Cas, placing his palms gently on each side of his face as Cas's colored eyes peered up at him in compliance. Like a tamed beast would. Obedient and docile, even surrounded by the dead. Crowley ran his hand across Cas's cheek, feeling the wet warmth of it. 

“Castiel,” he said, quietly. “It's time.” 

Cas blinked quickly over his blazing eyes as if to cool the red fire burning beneath them. 

“I sent my most trusted demons to the darkest corners of the earth to search for it before I realized. . .” Crowley's voice trailed off as he looked at Cas, feeling anger flaring inside him. “Before I realized it was you. All along.” 

* * * 

“Dean, how are we going to find him like this?” Sam suddenly said timidly, “we have no idea where to look.” It was the first words he'd spoken in a half hour, and the noise rang inside the cavity of the car. 

But Dean couldn't even bring himself to look at Sam. Instead, he clutched the steering wheel tighter, barreling down another street: 

“We'll find him.” 

* * * 

“Did you find the symmetry appealing?” Crowley continued, letting go of Cas's face, stepping over the corpse of a mangled woman. He nodded to himself. “ _I_ was impressed. Too impressed, in fact, to think at first it could be you. It was far too clever, I think. But then,” he paused, lifting a finger, “Then I realized the time line matched up with your little fall from heaven. A perfect opportunity in the midst of chaos. Dean and Sam were too busy with Gadreel. I was locked up in their tidy care. Heaven and Hell were a raging, wild mess, and you. . .” 

He smiled. “Castiel. Human. Easy to miss.” 

Crowley dipped down, crouching next to one of the corpses, idly fiddling with the dead man's spotted collar. 

“I was yours because of it,” he said darkly, “But now you're mine.” 

The King of Hell glanced at the fallen angel, face still muted with blood, red eyes waiting patiently for their next order. Crowley stood and swallowed, wiping the soot off his coat. 

“Tell me where it is,” he commanded through the wet heat gathering inside the confines of the street like a jungle. 

* * * 

Dean glanced at the clock. Two hours. Two hours had passed, and still they were driving aimlessly through the city streets. Maybe Sam was right. 

Dean shook his head against the thought. They'd find him. They had to. 

* * * 

Cas stared unblinking at Crowley. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he said, his voice distant and empty. 

Crowley growled, growing impatient as he punched Cas in the face. Seconds later, Cas looked back at the King of Hell with the same hollow stare, as if it had never happened. 

Then Crowley was in Cas's face, letting the black of his own eyes show, meeting stare for stare. 

“Tell me,” he said, fists balling. “Tell me where you put them.” 

The stretch of silence was eerie as Cas's mouth remained closed. Crowley watched for a flicker. Anything. But still he remained motionless. 

_It can't be_ , thought Crowley, stepping back, furrowing his eyebrows. _It has to be him. He has to have them,_ he thought. But his eyes scanned the stilled corpses cooling on the asphalt, knowing Cas was his. Knowing if Cas had them he would say it. He'd have no choice. 

Crowley straightened, feeling months of anger pooling in his chest. If it wasn't him, it had all been a waste. 

Crowley punched Cas again, twice. He allowed it with an obedient stare. And suddenly, when that wasn't enough, Crowley found himself yelling into the streets, the earth shaking beneath his dark power. 

The loose bricks began to crumble. The windows shattered beneath the sound. And it fell, Cas frozen like a kneeling statue beneath the cutting precipitation as glass rained down on them like hail. 

And, as the King of Hell watched it all fall, he was forced to admit it: 

“It was never you.” 


	37. Origin Points

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally found a solution to my laptop battery. Here's a fresh chapter to celebrate! Woot!

Dean stopped the car abruptly when he heard it. The reverberating yell, following by the distant sound of shattering glass. He looked at Sam. 

“Where?” he asked, voice sharp and demanding. 

His younger brother squinted into the darkness, leaning forward to peek across the dash, then Sam pointed feebly to the right. 

“That direction, I think,” he said, less certain than Dean would have liked. 

Dean wasn't fully convinced, but the cry of fury was potent, and his heart was beating fast as he pictured Cas, somewhere in the midst of the explosion. And he pressed his foot again to the gas, working towards the direction Sam had indicated. 

He threw a worried glance back at the circled bruise on Charlie's temple as he drove. He couldn't stop himself from recreating images of Leviathan Cas, God-Cas, Naomi controlled Cas and Angel Cas as he brutally beat Dean to a pulp and rammed him against a brick wall. The memories ached as he brought them forward, bringing with them a fuller sense of worry Cas. _Maybe his fever returned and he's hallucinating?_ Dean wondered while almost immediately dismissing the idea. Because he knew Cas, probably better than anyone else. And he could feel that whatever was happening with him, something was very very wrong. 

And Dean also knew better than anyone that human or not, Cas was a dangerous instrument, especially if he was malfunctioning. _This is bad,_ Dean thought, needling his way through the fog, cursing at the relentless way it choked the light. But soon they were close, and Dean was pulling over to the side of the road, killing the engine and headlights simultaneously. 

“Let's go,” he said, as he fumbled for the door handle, wrapping his free hand around the heavy weight of his gun. And he tried to ignore the tiny groan of the metal as the three doors opened and shut again while each of them exited. Their assault team walked quietly and quickly, guns drawn, Dean in the lead as he peeked around the corner and into the street. 

The lighting was poor here to say the least, and the effect was multiplied by the fog as his eyes tried to adjust. At first, he wasn't sure they were in the right place as he began to take in the smell of the streets and the uncomfortable stillness that washed over him. But then, ten feet ahead of him, Dean thought he spotted the pale skin of a hand lying limply in the gutter, palm open and spread towards the heavens. He took a wary step forward to get a better look, the full outline of the body coming into view, the glossy look of what appeared to be a homeless woman staring through the building across the street with empty eyes. 

_Damn it,_ he thought, braving another step closer as he tightened his grip on his gun. 

And that was when he registered the second body. And the third. The fourth. They were everywhere, filling up every corner of the streets like a flood. And suddenly, Dean was bombarded with the carnage of the silent massacre of bodies, sparkling with a fresh blanket of broken glass. 

Dean swallowed against the sudden feeling of confinement he felt between the towering walls of the old buildings on either side of him, hungry and thick. Trapping him inside the prison of genocide as his eyes darted between every dark-haired-corpse, looking for blue eyes and untidy hair. 

“What do you see?” Whispered Sam, still huddled close to Charlie, masked by the shadow of the corner they still hid behind, the red-head's form small, yet steady next to Sam's. 

Dean blinked, gun raised as he tried to ground himself. 

“I—” he started quietly, then stopped. 

He wanted to tell them to turn back, but he suddenly found he couldn't speak as he heard Sam and Charlie follow him into the street. And he could hear them both gasp at the sight. It was a brutal picture. Even for the likes of hunters. 

“Cas?” Sam asked warily, still whispering as he pointed his gun towards the fog. 

Dean shook his head, eyes still scanning for Cas, counting the seconds quietly in his head, wondering if time had abandoned them altogether. 

The fog began to dissipate, if only barely, lifting the curtain to more death and stillness. And for a moment, Dean thought it would go on forever, bodies stretched across the globe, ringing back on itself in an endless halo of blood, Cas buried somewhere beneath the final heavy weight of a John Doe. 

But then he saw it. The end of it all. And the end was Cas, pale skin covered in oily red that dripped from him like candle wax with crimson eyes to match. Kneeling in front of his deeds looking broken and dulled. 

Dean felt his hand start to go weak as his gun dipped: 

“Oh God,” he whispered, as if his voice could sail across the ocean of blood. “Cas, no.” 


	38. Under

Sam held his gun tightly between his hands pressing the soft bits of skin into the hard lines of metal. He'd familiarized himself with the weight and kick of his gun over the years, always favoring this model. And he held it up in front of him like a barricade between him and the world around him, like it could stop the angels, demons and Lucifer himself. But he'd fired it too many times to believe the false security that accompanied the feel of it. In the end, there was no place he could claim safety, and no weapon that could guarantee it. Not for him, and not for Dean. 

In the end, they'd both been to hell. It had been a different experience for Dean than for Sam. Dean would say Sam's was worse. Maybe that was true. His stretch was certainly longer. There wasn't a tool to measure that kind of pain. Besides, it wouldn't do them any good. So, they never talked about it. Didn't swap war stories from down below. There was always a different kind of battle to claim their attention here, anyway. But, sometimes he would catch Dean gritting his teeth against a scream, or see him get a far away look when they burned a body and the heat caught them just right. And he'd know. 

Sam could feel hell closing in on him now as the bodies stretched in front of him. It was red and black with stench and death. He knew Charlie was scared as Sam tried to stay in the present, angling his body slightly in front of hers. Still, he knew she didn't have the same context that Sam did for what was happening to Dean right now. 

Sam looked across the mangled waves of bodies at Cas, covered in hell, too. The man who'd once saved Dean from it. Then he looked at his older brother. He knew Dean was living it all again. But this time it was worse, because the angel he loved was fallen, and there was no one left to save them. 

They stayed that way a long time, staring across the fields of bloody skin before Dean took the first step. At first they were careful, trying not to step on the dead. But soon they were desensitized to the process, climbing over bodies as they pressed them down with their shoes. 

“Cas,” Dean said to his kneeling figure as they waded across the alley. “Cas, it's me, Dean.” 

Cas blinked, staring at the ground. But Sam could tell, even from far away that there was something wrong. It wasn't Cas. Not quite. They'd dealt with possessed loved ones before. But Sam knew immediately that this was something different. 

“Cas?” Sam echoed Dean timidly. Then Charlie joined in, all of them echoing “Castiel,” and “Cas” into the eerily quiet alleyway. 

They'd almost reached him, their shoes now wet as they walked through the dead. Finally, Cas looked up at them with dark red eyes. 

_It's not him. It's not him,_ Sam thought to himself, his heart beating fast. But even though he couldn't bring himself to say it out loud, he knew that Dean knew it, too. 

Still, he watched as Dean stepped over the last of the bodies and slowly knelt down in front of his angel and Sam couldn't find it in himself to stop him. 

“Cas?” said Dean quietly, one last time. “I'm here.” 

They were frozen there for a moment, everyone waiting. Hoping they'd found their friend, their brother. The man his brother loved. 

Cas blinked, then in one swift motion, Dean was on the ground, Cas's hands around his neck. 

“Dean!” Sam yelled, running to him. But suddenly, a figure appeared from the shadows. 

“Crowley?” Sam said, looking from Cas to Crowley, furrowing his eyebrows. He fixed his gun squarely on the King of Hell. “What did you do to him?” he demanded darkly. 

Crowley sauntered forward, hands deep in his pockets with a curious look of disappointment. “Nothing that did any good,” he said almost as if to himself. 

Sam stepped forward, his jaw tight. Crowley met him with an equally dark expression. He waved his hands in the air, pulling all of their guns from their hands and sending them barreling down the alley. 

Crowley took a few steps forward, motioning to Cas. He let go of Dean, obeying instantly. Dean rubbed his neck as he stood. 

“Undo it!” Dean immediately yelled at him, pointing to Cas. “Whatever the hell you did to him, you fix it now, or so help me God I will tear you limb from limb so slowly it will make Alistair's work look like child's play.” Dean was in Crowley's face at this point, his words potent and soaked with fury. 

The King of Hell didn't answer. Instead he looked away, shoving Dean's chest lightly to increase the space between them. 

“There's no time,” Crowley said, his voice dull and slow. “You've got bigger problems at the moment.” He looked at Cas: “Take care of them.” 

With that, he snapped his finger, disappearing into the night. Dean looked furious, quickly turning in circles to see if he could spot the king of hell. 

“Come back here, you asshole!” Dean yelled at the sky. “I don't care if you're the fucking king of hell or not, I'm going to make you wish you were never born!” 

“Dean.” Sam walked forward, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder, stopping him. Dean shrugged it off before looking in the direction his younger brother was pointing. 

“Shit,” Dean said, starting to look for his gun buried somewhere in the midst of the bodies. Because walking towards them were twenty men, who, unmistakably had to be part of the Russian Mafia. 


	39. The Dragon

Dimitri noted they had been walking a long time from where the men had met and parked their cars. _No one talks about the logistics of violence,_ he thought absently as they silently stomped along the old brick buildings of the city's dark corners. There were at least twenty men who had been solicited for this “mission,” and Dimitri was surprised at who'd been gifted the task. There were men here with skills equivalent to his own and rap sheets of violence to match. 

Dimitri smiled as he thought of his own nickname born in the bloodbath of his first interrogation: nasil'stvennaya sobak—“violent dog.” 

He looked at Viktor's shadowed form, three men ahead of him, leading the advance on. . . well, to be honest, he wasn't sure who the men were that they now sought. And, he was secretly convinced that Viktor, too, knew very little about their prey. In fact, though the two men who'd killed the City's mob boss in the middle of the night had had all eyes turned on them for days, they remained elusive, to say the least. Who were the phantom men whose faces had left only images drawn on copied paper and the dead of the entire mansion? Or so Dimitri had heard, through whispered conversations behind the boss's back. 

But they were just two men. Viktor now walked with twenty, and Dimitri couldn't even find it inside himself to increase his heart rate at the thought of the upcoming fight with the two vanilla faced pictures of their suspect sketches. No, he suspected that whatever reputation preceded these men, it was likely to be overstated. It would be over quickly, and the boss would be avenged of Adrik's death in time for the late night news to cover it. _Or he'll drag it out,_ his mind supplied, thinking of the back rooms inside the company's restaurant front with a smirk. 

Either way, there was little to worry Dimitri's cool gait as his shoulders brushed against the sharp forms of the men beside him. And he followed the mob, turning the corner with steady breaths. Filed into the alley, un-tucking his gun from the back of his pants. Stopped between his comrades Yury and Sergie, and looked towards their aggressors: 

Two men, a woman, and a shadow on his knees. 

Dimitri cocked his gun. He'd been wrong. 

He felt his own knees start to weaken as he tried to count the dead behind the small band in front of them, and he found he couldn't. Because, against all logic, it was a massacre, and the shadowed man's hands were bathed in it. 

He looked to Viktor, noting the man's own brief gesture of surprise. But the mob boss quickly hid his display beneath the veneer of a firm mask, seething as he motioned for the bound and gagged woman to be brought forward to him. Dimitri swallowed. Apparently they were going to act like they weren't standing in the midst of a massive grave site. 

* * * 

Dean glanced from Cas to the crowd of the mob in front of him feeling a deep sense of frustration and foreboding. Yet again, they'd landed themselves in a fucked up situation with little room for success. And yet, even in the midst of the crisis, his thoughts were glued to Cas. He wished he could stop the world and go to him. He needed to wake Cas up and make sure he was still in there, somewhere, deep beneath the abuse, neglect, and Crowley's cruelty. He needed to make sure Cas was ok. But instead, Dean found himself, once again, walking away from Cas and towards the mob boss, sending one last glance Cas's way. 

The man in the front of the gang looked across the scene of death and Dean couldn't help but notice the small hitch in his breath as he did. But, the Russian quickly steadied his features, nodding. 

“You've been busy,” he said, surveying the collage as if admiring a painting. 

Dean's hands twitched at his side feeling the empty sting where his fingers were bereft of his gun. 

The man glanced at Cas, still kneeling on the streets, red and wet, staring away from them in a way that made Dean's chest tighten. 

The man waited, but Cas didn't respond. 

“Stand up!” said the man, yelling in Cas's direction. Dean moved his body protectively in front of Cas's, drawing the man's attention. 

The Russian surveyed Dean's face, then glanced at Cas, eyes narrowing. Finally, he turned towards Charlie and Sam: 

“I'm here for them,” he said, motioning to Dean and then to Cas. “This doesn't have to get. . .” he paused, indicating the blood in the streets, “messier than it already is.” 

Part of Dean wished Charlie and Sam would take the out. Leave the sinking ship behind. Maybe someone could make it through this. But he watched as his brother and friend squared their shoulders, taking a step forward. _You idiots,_ he thought, even if the admission was soaked in fondness. But Dean spoke up anyway. 

“Take me,” he said, raising his hands in the air in submission. “I killed them. I did it. Take me.” 

The Russian nodded in approval, then motioned to Cas again. “ _And_ him,” he said commandingly. 

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, his breaths starting to be staggered. 

“Not him,” he said, pleading. “Just take me. I'll do whatever you want.” 

But the Russian was walking towards Cas anyway, grabbing someone from the crowd with him as he went. Dean looked at the girl the Russian dragged behind him, bound and gagged, recognition finding him. 

“Damn it,” Dean whispered as his eyes met the frightened stare of the woman from the coffee shop. He felt a sense of uneasiness thread through him as his eyes swept the bodies once more for his gun. 

The Russian, Viktor, as Dean heard someone call him as they pushed the woman through the crowds, stopped in front of Cas, his grip tight on the girl. 

“Stand up,” Viktor said again, addressing the wet, matted locks of Cas's hair. But he simply blinked, red eyes cast down to the ground. Viktor's face hardened. 

Dean swallowed. “He can't,” he inserted, “you don't understand. He's sick—” 

But the Russian held up his gun, pointing it at the girl's head in warning, his muscles stiff: “I wasn't talking to you.” Viktor's gaze drifted downward as he reached for Cas's face, roughly grabbing his chin and forcing him to look him in the eye. 

Viktor swallowed his discomfort as he gazed down at Cas's unnaturally red eyes. But he held his grip firm, trying to appear unworried. 

“I'll kill her,” the Russian said, his voice a little less steady, but still full of promise. “I will if you don't stand up and face me like the little shit you are. Face me like you did my brother when you choked him to death, naked and helpless on the floor. Look at me, you whore!” 

Dean's hands tightened into fists as he listened to the verbal assault, but he stayed himself, eyeing the man's gun firmly planted up against the woman's temple. 

At first Dean thought Cas wouldn't move. He was eerily still and for a moment Dean found himself questioning if Cas had vacated his vessel before he remembered that he was human now. He owned this body. 

Viktor waited. Everyone waited for something. Anything. 

Suddenly, Viktor hit Cas across the front of his jaw with the butt of his gun. 

And, in a flash, Dean was looking at a blur of motion. Cas's was standing, launching an assault against Viktor. And, before he could register what he was doing, Dean was running, watching Cas's hands move expertly in the dark. 

For a moment, Dean thought Cas might get the better of Viktor as he watched the Russian stumble back a few steps with a bloody lip and a surprised expression. 

Then he heard it. The piercing cry of a gun shot. And Dean watched the thin thread of smoke rising from the barrel of Viktor's gun at the end of his outstretched arm. And it was pointed at Cas. 

But the thing was, Cas was still standing, his eyes dark and rimmed in red like a dragon. And Dean thought he'd never seen him look so feral. 


	40. Storms

Dean watched Viktor halt as the crowd listened to the bullet plink ineffectively to the ground as if he'd shot at a sheet of metal and not a human abdomen. And, before Dean could follow the chain of events, Cas was attacking again, sending Viktor's gun sliding across the asphalt as it scratched against the rough surface. 

Dean watched Cas slam his fist into the Russian's jaw ruthlessly, drawing more blood from the man's now split lip. Viktor returned the blow, but Cas caught the man's hand in his fist midair, holding it there as his fingers tightened their grip causing the Russian to cry out as Cas twisted the man's arm behind his back. 

Three more shots fired, echoing in the alley as Cas brought the Russian, yelling, to his knees. Dean's hands were tightened into fists as he watched Cas's body reject the foreign metal of each bullet, his concentration unstirred by the distraction. 

“Cas!” Dean yelled, unsure of whether it was out of concern for Cas or for the storm he saw coming. Either way, his words were irrelevant as he watched Viktor scramble free from Cas's grip and cowardly run from the inhuman creature, hiding between the crowds, yelling orders for the men to attack as he pulled the woman from the coffee shop behind him. 

Dean used the distraction to grab Viktor's discarded gun, taking out three of the nearest men before they could retaliate. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sam and Charlie attacking the flanks to his left. Dean cringed with each sound of a gun shot before watching more Russians begin to fall. 

The men were well trained, to be sure, and if numbers were the only factor in this fight, Dean might have believed they didn't have a chance. But, as he slammed the butt of his gun into the soft cartilage of the nearest man's nose, Dean began to admit that he, Charlie and Sam had a certain flexibility that the mob lacked. Where the mob had spent time training against only humans, Dean and the other hunters had battled against the dark and the unknown. And it provided them with a fairly innovative and quickly adaptable sense of defense, Dean realized, as he plowed through two more men, wincing as one of the Russians pummeled his ribs. He vaguely thought of the significant bruise it would leave as he tried to avoid getting shot. Still, he felt more confident as he glanced at Charlie's blurry form elbowing a large Russian woman in the nose despite the fact that the aggressor was far taller than the petite redhead. Charlie followed it up with a swift kick to the balls of a man behind the now bleeding woman, all the while with a smug look on his redhead friend's face. 

But, what, disturbingly, made Dean start to believe they might make it through this was when he saw Cas. Cas's face was solid and stony while his hands moved like a storm, blocking attacks and returning them with exponential force as more and more of the mob focused their energy him, abandoning their guns as they slowly realized they were useless. And then Cas was straddling one of them, hitting the man repeatedly in the face as the drying blood on Cas's hands was coated with a fresh, gushing bout of red. Intermittently, the angel would hit someone behind him who was trying to pry him off of the clearly unconscious body under him. 

Dean felt the consequence of his distraction as a fist connected with his jaw, the sound of cracking filling his senses as the white hot sting from the impact flashed across his vision. Blindly he lunged back, crashing on top of a heavy body as he pulled them both to the ground. He listened to the man's back hit the asphalt before he exhaled a muffled moan and went limp. 

Dean rolled off the unconscious man quickly regaining his footing as he searched for someone else to attack. But, as he looked around, he realized the only men left on the street were concentrated on Cas as he quickly sent man after man to lie down in the bloody halo of bodies. 

Even Charlie and Sam had stopped fighting, Sam kneeling as the redhead wrapped her arms around Dean's little brother's shoulders. Then, Dean glanced down at Sam's hands holding his side as red spilled through the cracks in his fingers. 

“No,” Dean said, feeling the blood rush from his head, leaving him dizzy. “No, Sam, no.” 

Sam looked up apologetically as Dean ran to his side. 

“I'm sorry,” Sam said when Dean reached him, placing his hands on top of his brother's pressing down as if it somehow the extra hands could keep the blood inside. 

Dean looked Sam hard in the face. “I don't want to hear it,” he said sharply. He glanced down at Sam's eyes his brother's lids dipped a little in fatigue and blood loss. 

Dean could hear the cries of men falling to the ground to his right as Cas worked his way through the remaining mob. Dean forced himself not to look at Cas as he registered Sam's eyes start to close. 

“Sam!” he said sharply, causing the other hunter to snap back into attentiveness for a moment. “Is the bullet still inside?” Dean asked bluntly, trying not to think of how many times he'd had to ask that question over the years. 

A man yelled in the background before being silenced. 

Sam's hands left his side momentarily as he looked down. Blood began seeping from the wound more readily and Dean removed his jacket pushing it up against his brother's ribs. 

“Yeah, it's still in there,” Sam said weakly. 

“Charlie, get him to the car,” Dean said as he helped Sam to his feet. “There's some supplies in the trunk that should help until we can get him somewhere to take the bullet out.” 

He looked at Sam again, displeased with the way his brother's face had started to turn an ashy white color. 

Charlie nodded at Dean's instructions then glanced at Cas. 

“What about—” she started, then stopped as she watched Cas break a man's neck in front of them. 

Dean helped Sam wrap his thick arm around Charlie's neck to stabilize his brother, noting the way the redhead's frame dipped a little with the weight. 

“If we're not back to the car in ten minutes,” Dean finally said, his voice catching in his throat. “Leave.” 


	41. Creature Fear

“Don't you fucking die on me, Sammy,” Dean whispered to himself as he watched Charlie and Sam's shadows devoured by the edge of the towering brick walls as they turned the corner. 

And, when they were finally gone, Dean slowly turned his attention to Cas, already running to his side, prying a faceless figure from Cas's back, throwing him to the ground. Dean kicked him in the head, effectively knocking him out as he took in the dwindling force around Cas. 

_We might make it through this,_ Dean thought, realizing a small amount of hope was starting to reveal itself in the midst of the chaos. Dean scanned the alley. It was wet with more fresh blood, only two men left to challenge Cas. 

The air felt heavy, and Dean was convinced he could feel the chill of unseen reapers swarming to collect their massive offering. He shuddered as images of Lucifer wormed their way back into his psyche. Sensations of the suffocating humidity and stink of his trapped years below. Of screams and fire and endless death. Sensations of Hell. Precious little had brought him back to that place the way he was thrust into it now. He struggled to breathe as he tried to ground himself inside the present, pushing the memories aside with difficulty. 

But nothing brought him back more quickly than watching Cas shove another man to the ground. Cas reached down as the man tried to sit back up, but in a second, Cas was wrapping one strong hand around the front of the russian's neck, looking down on the man like a vengeful god. A second spanned like that, Cas tightening his grip as the man clawed ineffectively at Cas's arm to release him. Then, Cas moved. It was fast and precise as Cas shoved his arm forward, propelling the man to the ground like he was spiking a volleyball and not a human head. With loud crack it was done. 

And then there was one left. One hopeless soul who viewed his final comrade's stilling body under Cas's hand, joining the insurmountable heap of forever unmoving things. Dean was close enough now to see the last Russian's face, yellow tinted in the light and coated with the clues of battle exhaustion starting to creep into his countenance. And Dean could see a look in the man's eye. The Russian had the expected reaction of shock, and perhaps fear, but it wasn't just that. There was something more, Dean could tell. The moment was fleeting, but Dean saw a look of significance as the man eyed the limp neck in Cas's grip, and Dean recognized it. It was the expression of a man who'd just watched something horrific happen to someone he cared about. Someone he loved. Dean swallowed as he watched the man deflate, taking a step back from Cas, raising shaky hands in surrender, his face solemn. 

Cas advanced anyway. His expression resembled nothing of the soft, kind lines Dean had grown to know that his friend possessed. There had always been something bright inside Cas, and Dean acknowledged it consciously for the first time. Because, watching Cas now, Dean realized that anything soft Cas may have once possessed was now gone—buried deep beneath a wall of red. 

“Cas, no,” Dean said, looking at the man's broken form beyond Cas. “He has nothing left to fight for,” said Dean softly. He tentatively reached out for him, lightly placing a restraining hand on his shoulder. “It's over,” he said quietly. 

Cas continued to stare at the retreating man, his face blank. Cas didn't turn to look at Dean the way he wished he would. Dean didn't know if anything he was saying was getting through to Cas right now, but he held his arm anyway, hoping there was some small part of Cas that was still in there. And, though Cas didn't look, he did pause, his attack arrested by Dean's light touch. 

_Maybe he's still in there,_ Dean thought, _maybe I can still reach him._

Then, Cas blinked. Dean felt his hand slip off his arm as Cas dipped to the ground, expertly scooping up a knife. And, in one fluid motion, so fast Dean almost missed it, Cas threw the knife at the man. The Russian grunted and fell to his knees, the weapon plunged directly into his heart. 

It took a second for Dean to orient himself to the spreading dark spot on the russian's chest, and the way the knife protruded from his lungs. The way he tumbled to the ground, grunting as flesh hit the asphalt. The way Cas blinked away the image like a smudge on the outside of a window. 

Dean paused, then quietly, “Cas—” he started, but then stopped. Everyone was gone. It was an eerie and chilling victory that left Dean feeling more alone than ever, even with Cas standing right next to him. Cas had effectively discarded of every aggressor in the vicinity with his bare hands, including the best of the mob. _Except the mob boss_ , dean realized, _where was he?_

Then, Dean spied the man crouching in a corner, eyes wide and unblinking, hiding behind the skinny frame of Cas's “friend.” 

Dean furrowed his eyebrows and set his jaw moving towards the man. But, one step in, Dean felt himself dragged back as pale hands jumped him from behind before those same hands were viciously turning him, then striking him in the face with familiar force and precision. The same hands that had more than once left him swelling and red from their full angelic force. Hands that had once been burned into the sensitive pores of his own flesh. 

Cas's hands. 


	42. Hold On

Dean didn't want to hit Cas back. He remembered what it was like to have his fist in Cas's face. He understood the way it made him feel to hurt Cas. Because he'd done it before, and in turn Cas had hurt him back.

 _How many times will it come to this?_ Dean thought as Cas's fist slammed into him again. Somehow, gestures of affection had become more foreign than this familiar conditioned response between them. Like two misused sources of heat and power that were unsustainable when they touched, creating a cosmic energy for destruction. And, as Cas boxed Dean's ear, Dean started to feel his will start to melt in the reverberating ring that now replaced the sounds of each forceful blow.

He could let Cas kill him. It was a dark thought, Dean acknowledged, but it was tempting nonetheless. Cas could have his justice. Dean could do this for him. Balance the scales and end the pattern of hurting him. But, even as Dean entertained the idea he thought of Cas, left alone to wander the streets—a broken thing, alone and imprisoned inside his own mind, his body betraying him, left to find more death until Crowley scooped him up to be his obedient servant.

And, when he thought of it, Dean wondered how he could be so selfish. Every choice he made seemed to hurt Cas more and more. Cas who had put Dean first too many times to count.

And Dean now knew, completely, that he didn't care about the times when Cas hadn't put him first, because those few times were lost in the sea of selfless acts Cas had done for Dean beginning the moment he'd scooped him out of hell. And Dean suddenly tried to remember if he'd ever said thank-you. A simple gesture for the man who'd died for him over and over again—Cas, the never ending martyr. The kindest, most unselfish person Dean had ever known.

The man Dean loved.

Cas threw dean against the ground. He grunted in response. Cas was as strong as his days as an angel, making Dean wonder again just what Crowley had done to him as every muscle ached under the bruising strain of Cas's blows. Dean twisted to the side, attempting to get up, feeling an explosion of pain. he breathed through it, noting his need for shallow breaths to stay conscious. Dean closed his eyes tightly as Cas kicked him from the other side. Dean grabbed his side, his experienced senses recognizing a broken rib for what it was.

He yelled through the pain, groaning as he rolled from Cas's reach.

“Cas wait,” he huffed, slowly standing with a tremendous amount of effort, “please.”

But Cas was already coming again, faster than Dean could move as he backed up against the brick walls beside the cowering mob boss.

And that's when Cas saw the man hiding beside Dean. It was momentary distraction, and Dean took advantage of it. He hated it. The feel of Cas's neck under him as he wrapped an arm around his neck, choking him. But Cas threw him off effortlessly, his attention suddenly diverted to the mob boss whose hands were placed on either side of the gagged woman's face in warning as Cas stepped forward. But Dean knew, this wasn't Cas. _He won't stop for her,_ Dean thought. In fact, he thought Cas might even try to kill the woman himself.

Dean pushed himself off the ground again despite the way his vision started to blur with the pain. He didn't even know who the woman was. He didn't know why Cas cared about her. But he saw it in the coffee shop. She was important to Cas. If Cas loved or cared about her in any capacity, then it was enough. Dean knew he couldn't let Cas kill her.

Dean attacked again, returning his arm to its place around Cas's neck. Bullets wouldn't hurt him, and he was practically invincible. But Dean couldn't help but hope that maybe, just maybe, he could knock Cas out if he crushed his air supply.

So, he hung on as Cas elbowed him, clawed at him, and tried to throw him off again. Dean thought it might have been the hardest thing he'd ever had to hold on to as the searing pain and bruises increased with each attack. Cas could kill him like this, he acknowledged as he was hit again. But still, his grip was firm. He held on to Cas like it was his purpose in life, and even if he couldn't think straight anymore, stopping Cas was the one thing Dean had left. The one thing that made sense. He might not be able to save his own life, but he could save Cas. From himself.

Dean blacked out a few times in the struggle, surprised a little at his own ability to hold on. But, he did, and he watched with relief as Cas's movements slowed, his knees starting to buckle as he moved closer to the mob boss. And, suddenly, they fell together to their knees, Cas clawing at Dean's arm for air as they knelt in front of the only other two people left in the alley.

Dean could see the mob boss's eyes this close, could sense the fear, even in Dean's thrashed and distracted state. But, not only that, he could see something else as the man looked into Cas's eyes as Cas started to blink heavily with the lack of oxygen. The mob boss's expression was full of hate as he looked into the eyes of the man who'd viciously slaughtered his men one by one inside the alley. The man who'd killed his brother.

The mob boss tightened his grip on the woman's face, whose eyes were wide now, staring at Cas, her own eyes full of fear. And, then he saw it in the man's eyes. The resolve.

“No!” Dean managed to cry out, even in his exhausted state.

But it was too late. Dean watched as the man twisted the girl's neck in one quick sweep. Heard the crack and the thump of her falling body. Dean felt like throwing up when he knew it was the last thing Cas saw before Dean felt him go limp in his arms. He let Cas's body fall to the ground as he collapsed, and Dean looked down at Cas's face. He could see the wet trail of a tear on his cheek.

And Dean flinched as he heard the mob boss's footsteps as the man ran from the alley.


	43. Beacon

The police would be here soon. Dean was sure the only reason they hadn't found them yet was because this part of town was isolated from the cleaner, more lived in parts of the city. In fact, even though Dean had hardly spent any time in this place, even he could tell this space was forgotten. The walls lacked both the markings of gang graffiti and the city's upkeep. Like it wasn't even worth the bother to build or destroy. And, though Dean knew better, there was a betraying sense that no one would ever come here to find the place where a hundred men died. No one would know the way the ground was flooded with streams of red. No one would know the fallen angel had done it.

It was a thought borne from the blanket of silence Dean found himself enveloped in now. Cas was circled in bodies, his face finally calm as he slept. And Dean was alone, truly and completely as he inhaled shallow breaths, looking down at Cas. Seeing a look of fleeting peace on Cas's face should have brought him comfort. Instead, Dean felt a sense of foreboding. An ache, wishing he could have his angel back. But there was still red trapped inside Cas's cocoon of sleep.

 _Get him out of here,_ his mind directed, but his body was slow to catch up with his thoughts, everything around him growing more hazy and confusing. He was in bad shape, he could tell as he slowly rose, sharp pains dispersing in fractal patterns through his side. Dean stumbled back a few steps before stilling himself. He had no notion of how much time had passed since he sent Charlie and Sam to the car, or what lay just beyond the borders of the alleyway. They could already have left. He told them to, and part of him hoped they had. Then his brother might have a fighting chance, he acknowledged, feeling a renewed sense of worry.

But then there was Cas, Dean's perfect, beautiful monster. Even with everything weighing on his mind right now, Dean couldn't help but notice the innocence in Cas as he slept, his hair tangled and wild, his lashes shadowing his cheeks. His hands covered in blood.

 _Shit,_ Dean thought. He was starting to get delirious. He was starting to forget the urgency of the moment, wrapped up in a heady cloud of Cas and delirium.

He dipped down to Cas on unsteady legs, slowly and carefully.

Dean brushed his hand through Cas's hair.

“C'mon Cas,” he said quietly. And with that, he dipped his hands under Cas's body, and slowly lifted him off the ground.

It hurt like hell. Dean groaned through the pain of Cas's heavy weight draped across his arms, his vision starting to crackle with bursts of black. He stumbled, careful to keep hold of Cas, even when he wasn't sure he could tune in to anything but the pain. He might have yelled. He wasn't sure. But, suddenly his mind became aware of the way the pain thrust into him with every movement, determined to bring him to his knees. Dean wasn't a stranger to pain, but right now his mind screamed for relief.

Instead, he tightened his grip on Cas and started his walk. Bodies littered his path like mud, slowing his pilgrimage from minutes to days to years. And soon there was nothing more than the pain, unconscious Cas, and the dead. It was his existence now, forever to feel the way Cas twitched against him like a sleeping dragon. As if at any moment he might wake and devour whatever was left of Dean. Which was very little now, he acknowledged as his shoulder slammed against the brick walls by the side of the alley, scraping his weight against them for support as he walked.

And finally, his eyes were closed, using the wall as a reference point, listening to the rough, hard scrape of it as he walked. _Almost there,_ he told himself a thousand times, having no idea if that were actually true. But his mind had its own truth. He would be here forever, on fire with pain, Cas in his arms, walking on and on with no end in sight. Somewhere deep down his psyche knew there had to be an end. But he couldn't feel it the way he could feel the fatigue, pain, or the unstable way that his feet navigated through the corpses beneath them.

“Almost there,” he said, this time out loud. To Cas.

But his knees were dragging him down further, threatening to collapse. And finally, with difficulty, Dean opened his eyes. He was almost at the edge of the alley.

 _Will they be there?_ he wondered again. _Will baby be there? Will my family?_

He braced himself as he neared the edge. Ten steps. Two. One.

He thought he might cry when he saw it, slivers of light glinting off the silver bumper. Baby waiting for them like a beacon to take them home.

It called to him, pulling them forward, closer to the car. And soon, Charlie was running to him, steadying Dean's arms, bracing Cas's weight between the both of them.

Finally, he laid Cas in the back seat next to Sam, glancing one last time at his sleepy form before shutting the door and practically falling into the passenger's seat. And, a moment later, Charlie was driving the impala down the darkened fog filled streets.

In his side mirror, Dean could see a hand on the ground, stretched out and pleading, even in death. He watched as the dark, grainy image of skin got smaller and smaller until it was only a dot in his vision. And, though he wasn't sure he was totally lucid, Dean thought he could see shifting colors of red and blue lights against the white clouds as they left.


	44. Chemicals

Every second felt like too long as they made the painstaking trek back to the bunker. Charlie was speeding, but still Dean felt exposed, a sense of worry growing every time he painfully braved a look at Sam and Cas's unconscious forms in the back seat. 

It was still dark when they pulled over, forty five minutes into the drive. They were barely outside the city and that knowledge left Dean feeling exposed as he stiffly walked to the back seat, opening the door on Sam's side. 

Leaning forward with a wince, Dean ran a hand across his brother's sweat-soaked forehead, brushing his hair away from his eyes. Under the tips of his fingers, Dean could feel the fire burning away under Sam's skin. He scanned his brother's face, noting the pale, chapped lips and the dark bags forming under his eyes. 

Dean swallowed. It was bad. 

“We can't wait,” said Dean, turning to Charlie. “I have to get this bullet out,” he continued, his voice breaking a little as he ended with “we could lose him.” 

Charlie nodded tightly, pausing as if waiting for more orders. For the first time, Dean noticed the way her own face was bruised, her knuckles red and bloody. Dean's jaw tightened and he forced himself to look back at his brother. 

Sam's chest hitched in shallow breaths. Dean's gaze drifted through the car. He couldn't do it here. 

If they got a motel room, he could work from there, Dean thought, but paused as his eyes fell on Cas. He twitched in his fitful sleep, his hands a crusty black-red color. His countenance was equally as discomforting as Sam's if not more so. They needed to get Cas back to the bunker where they could keep him from hurting anyone else. It was only a hope that the bunker could hold Cas, but it was the best bet they had. And, he knew time was running out out. Cas was a bomb, waiting to go off, making Dean's skin itch with every involuntary shift he made. 

He looked back and forth from his brother to Cas. 

Sam. Cas. Medical attention. The bunker.

Behind him, Dean could feel Charlie's heat, waiting for him to make a choice. She didn't speak, or offer any advice, and Dean knew it was because she understood. It was an impossible situation. This whole fucking nightmare had been. 

Dean leaned against the open door, bracing his hands against the metal frame, swallowing as he closed his eyes. He didn't like it, but he knew what they needed to do. 

“Let's go get a room,” he said finally, turning to Charlie. “We need to be quick about it, though. I'll sneak these two in from the back.” 

“Ok,” Charlie said, nodding again. Shortly after, her eyes silently flicked to Cas. 

Dean didn't answer, instead reaching into the impala and grabbing a napkin and a pen jammed between the seat. He put the napkin on the roof of the car, quickly scribbling a few notes on the corner of it. 

“After you check us in, I'll need you to go buy some stuff,” said Dean. 

“Alright,” Charlie said, scanning the items quickly. 

With one last look at the two men stuffed inside the back seat of the car, Dean closed the door heavily. 

“C'mon,” he said, stumbling back into the passenger's seat. “We're going to need to work fast.” 

* * * 

Within a half hour, Dean had dragged Sam and Cas into the motel room on a broken rib. He'd been able to wake Sam up just enough to help him stumble inside, his eyes opening and closing confusedly, but Cas left him seeing stars as he dumped his limp body on the second bed. Dean sat next to him on the bed, feeling his own fatigue start to take over as he waited for Charlie to return. 

He could hear Cas's breaths this close. Despite his fatigue, Dean walked slowly to the bathroom, wetting a rag inside the sink. When he got back to Cas's bed, he froze when Cas stirred. But he didn't move again and Dean made his way to his side. He felt an uncomfortable sense of deja vu as he grabbed one of Cas's unconscious hands and started wiping it down with the rag, scrubbing at the back of it until he started to see pale flesh peek through. He thought vaguely for a moment about Cas's abandoned apartment back in the city and the way the bed dipped with the two of them the night he'd found Cas. The teeth marks dipped into his flesh. The broken expression in his eyes. 

Suddenly the door opened, and Charlie was there, holding the grocery bags in front of her. She had on a baseball cap pulled low over her ears in an attempt to hide the bruises on her face with the shadows. She set the bags on the table slowly taking the items out. 

“Ok, where do you need everything?” she asked, pointing to some tweezers, alcohol, rags and gloves. 

Dean motioned to the items already out. “Set those aside, I'll get to Sam in a second,” he said. Then, more hesitantly, “did you get the other stuff?” 

Charlie held up the other bag, pulling out a few cleaning supplies. “Yes,” she said, clearly confused, “but, why?” 

But Dean didn't answer her. Instead, he grabbed one of the rags from the table, turning the cleaners towards him to get a better look at each of the labels, eyeing them like a scientist in a lab. And soon, he was mixing them and putting them on the cloth. 

When he turned, Charlie was looking at him as if trying to puzzle out his madness. But when she saw Dean start to walk towards Cas with a pained look on his face, she stopped, surprised. 

“I don't even want to know how you know how to do this,” she said. 

But her face fell as she noticed Dean's reluctance and she returned it with a concerned look of her own, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

And in a second, Dean was placing the rag over Cas's unconscious face, watching his muscles relax even deeper as Dean's stomach twisted uncomfortably while he watched. It took minutes for it to work and Dean held the rag tightly with an empty expression as he timed it on the alarm clock on the nightstand. 

Dean wasn't sure what he hated more—placing the makeshift chloroform rag over Cas's face, or putting it over Sam's to keep him from screaming while he dug the bullet out. 

When Dean was done with them both, he wadded the sheets up and threw them in the corner of the room, making his way to the bathroom to wash his hands. In the bathroom, he looked at his own banged up reflection in the mirror seeing for the first time his own battle scars. But, he turned away quickly, turning the light off as he went. 

As he exited the bathroom, he noted Charlie's form already curled up on the extra space next to Sam. That left Dean sleeping with Cas again, and Dean couldn't help but think of the nightmare quality of the times he'd slept next to Cas in the last week. But, he hadn't slept properly in days, so he practically collapsed next to Cas, grateful for the feel of a solid mattress underneath him. 

But, his sleep was fitful as he woke himself up every 20 minutes to give Cas another dose of chemicals to keep him sedated, banking on Cas's “condition” to keep his body safe from the prolonged exposure to the chemicals. 

And, even though he wore gloves, Dean could swear he could still smell it on his hands through the night. 


	45. Clean

Dean woke up to the quiet sound of the tv inside the motel room. Charlie and Sam were both sitting up in the bed opposite him, intently watching the screen.

“ Sammy,” Dean breathed and his brother looked over at him, his face painted with fatigue. Still he let off a small smile when he saw the expression on Dean's face. In turn, Dean felt what might be the first sense of relief he'd encountered in days.

But it didn't last as Sam pointed to the television screen with his eyebrows furrowed. Dean flicked his eyes to the T.V., but he already knew what he'd find.

He vaguely processed as the reporter dryly talked about the rise of the death toll, mentioning the Russian Syndicate while flashes of the mansion and emptied alley were shown. _So, they are attributing it to gang wars,_ Dean thought. Cas twitched in his sleep next to Dean, and he swallowed, reaching for the rag. He hated the way he could feel the curve of Cas's lips beneath the fabric.

And the pitying looks from Sam and Charlie weren't lost on him as he finished and dumped the cloth on the ground, feeling nauseous.

But, he didn't have time to analyze it as an uncomfortable thought struck him. He turned to Sam.

“ Oh God,” he said, feeling uncomfortable. “The guns. We left the guns—”

Charlie cut him off, raising a hand to placate him. “I called the network and got one of our own to the scene in time.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. This wouldn't be an ordinary investigation. Dean swallowed as he recounted the sea of dead inside the alley. It was a massacre. Trying to pose as fake F.B.I. would be extremely dangerous in a situation like this, especially when the scene was likely to be flooded with legitimate investigators. Let alone, stealing evidence from the crime scene.

“ Who?” Dean asked, unable to hide his surprise.

Charlie smiled tightly. “Garth,” she said.

Dean nodded, feeling a sense of guilt and gratitude to the quirky hunter he'd often underestimated. The man had saved their asses.

Dean stood, looking down on Cas as he heard the T.V. turn off. Cas's face was lit with the light of the window, glazing his skin in sunshine and warmth. And, now that Dean had freed Cas's hands from the blood, Dean could see the way Cas's hands ticked in tiny movements in his sleep.

He turned to Sam, remembering their talk inside the impala last night. It felt like a hundred years ago, but still, his mind rang with his last wish to his brother.

“ Call Garth back, there's something else I need him to do,” he said. Sam nodded and Dean finished with “Let's go home.”

* * *

Dean was speeding. He knew he should play it safe. If he got pulled over looking the way they did at the moment, it was bound to raise a few eyebrows, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. He needed to get there. Quickly.

Home. Home. Home. The word tumbled around inside his head like a mantra as he watched Charlie take over his duty of keeping Cas unconscious in the back seat.

And his chest ached when he spied the way Cas's head slid against Charlie's shoulder. She gave off a pained smile, leaning her head on top of Cas's in a tiny motion of affection, her face still bruised and red.

 _Home,_ he thought again. It had become an obsession for Dean, he started to realize as he felt the pull of the freeway curve against his body—to get Cas back to the bunker where he'd be safe. Dean peeked back again at Cas's tousled hair in the reflection, letting the realization of how protective he'd grown of Cas fall on him heavy and real. He'd always felt that sense of need when it came to Sam. That pull to keep safe his little brother. Every time he looked at Sam, he could still see his chubby six-year-old cheeks through the scruff, and he knew he'd do anything for Sam to keep him safe and happy.

But Cas was different. There was something almost primal in the way Dean looked at Cas. He could feel it, sneaking up on him like a plague. He equated it with that word because somehow he couldn't seem to extricate with the immense pain that trailed behind Cas as Dean reached for him like an ever moving mirage. He could see Cas's pain. Cas had been anything but safe for the last ten months, and Dean wasn't even sure he could come to terms with the hurt that would await Cas when he woke up. Would he remember the night in the mansion? The nightmares? The blood? The girl?

Dean swallowed the lump forming in his throat, shifting in his seat as the ache in his side grew.

All he'd wanted was to get Cas back, but when he found him, it was all wrong. And now that he was finally getting Cas home, he knew, even before he reached the lane of the bunker that everything was too much. He wished he could feel relief, but instead his mind challenged him with the unspoken question of what he would find when they finally let Cas open his eyes again. Would it be _his_ Cas? Dean squeezed his hands tighter against the steering wheel.

His. He shouldn't think like that. Man after man had fought to own Cas, to control him. And it made Dean sick to think he might be one of them. He looked at his fingers turning white with the pressure as if the hate he felt pooling in his stomach were being drained through them. The hate for every man who treated Cas like an object. Like something to own. He could see the bite marks on Cas's flesh in his mind and the filthy red scratches across his back, and Dean was surprised that the thought of them was more disturbing to him than Cas's red framed silhouette inside the alley.

God, the alley. The thought of it made him shiver.

Suddenly, Sam's voice: “You ok?”

Dean turned to his brother, noting the way he looked pale in appearance, his hair slicked back behind his ears. Still he looked better than yesterday.

Dean turned back to face the road. “I'm fine.”

He wasn't. He knew it. Sam knew it. But he wasn't even sure why Sam had asked in the first place. None of them were fine. None of them would be for awhile.

But at least they were “home,” he acknowledged as baby crawled up the lane to the bunker. And Dean pulled into the parking garage, wondering at the sudden apprehension inside his mind as he finally turned off the car.

He should be happy, right? Instead, he absorbed the way the florescent lights cast strange shadows inside the windows of the car as they all acquainted themselves with the lack of sunlight. Dean turned, wincing, to Sam.

“ I'll carry him this time,” Sam said sympathetically, before Dean could speak. Dean almost protested when he started to realize how exhausted he was and how much pain he was in. He had to admit, reluctantly, that now they'd given Sam some medicine and stitched his wounds, Dean might be the one in worse shape now.

Dean nodded gratefully. Sam opened his door, shifting his weight to step out when Dean suddenly grabbed his brother's arm. Sam looked back curiously.

“ Sam,” Dean said quietly. Tentatively. “Don't. . .” he paused. “Don't put him in the dungeon, ok?”

Sam covered Dean's hand with his own, and Dean was surprised that he felt a little comforted at the strange display of affection.

“ You can cuff him in my room. He can rest on my bed,” Dean said, pulling away when it got to be too much.

Sam nodded looking pleased with this, making Dean feel the need to clarify.

“ _Not_ with me,” he said forcefully, hoping to drive his point home. “I'll sleep with Charlie if she'll let me.” He heard her small grunt of acceptance behind him. Then, less confidently, and quietly, to Sam alone, he said “I'm not. . . I can't. . . ” as if in explanation. “Sam, he doesn't need that. Not right now. Maybe not ever.”

When Sam looked like he was going to argue, Dean cut him off.

“ How I feel doesn't matter,” he said. “It's not about me. It's about what Cas needs.” _Finally,_ his brain supplied guiltily.

Sam didn't look convinced at Dean's logic. Dean didn't care. He glanced back one more time at Cas before watching his brother lift his limp form from the backseat, cringing at the dried blood he still hadn't managed to clean from Cas's neck and face.”

“ I'll help get him cleaned up,” Charlie said kindly as if she'd noticed. And, in a moment, both doors were shut.

Dean sat in the impala for a moment, breathing in the vacant stench that his car had taken on, watching the two men and woman disappear into the bunker.

 _Home,_ he thought again, trying force himself to feel relieved.

Instead, he numbly pulled his keys from the ignition, stumbling inside after the gang and towards his room. Cas's new prison cell.

Dean watched Sam drill the eye hooks into the floor on either side of the bed, lacing the heavy chains through them and tugging to test their support. Then, Dean followed Charlie's orders to grab Cas some fresh clothes from his dresser and handed them off to her with a blank expression on his face. And, in a second they were both shooed from the room, listening to the loud click of the door so Charlie could clean Cas up and tend to his wounds.

 _If Cas even has any,_ Dean thought as he dutifully stayed outside of his room, waiting like a guard despite his own need to shower and rest. And Dean's fingers twitched in anger as he thought about Crowley and Cas's red eyes while shot after shot was fired at his stomach and face.

He forced his hands to relax. There would be time to deal with that later. Right now, Cas. It hadn't been that long since Charlie last dosed Cas. He would be waking up soon, Dean knew.

He waited for what felt like hours, and then came Charlie's tired voice: “Dean, you can come in.”

Dean opened the door, almost too enthusiastically, rushing to Cas's side. And, he stopped, his mouth opening slightly in surprise. Charlie had done a great job cleaning up Cas. He was dressed in Dean's clothes. And, as Dean suspected, Cas didn't have any damage from the fight. Not one single scratch. Dean peeked his eyes down at Cas's hands, trying to find the faint pink lines of Cas's nails that were so striking back at Cas's apartment. Nothing. There was just the pale expanse of healthy skin and peaceful features on Cas's face as he slept. In fact, there was little indication that anything was wrong as Cas's chest dipped slowly and peacefully with his breaths.

Except the enchanted handcuffs wringing his wrists while connected to the tight sweeping expanse of chains bolted to the floor.

Dean stood by Cas's side, careful not to touch him, but feeling hopeful.

Maybe when he woke it would be Cas. Maybe this nightmare could end. He looked at the clock by his bed. _Any minute,_ he thought, almost jumping as Cas started to twitch. And, as if Sam knew, he came into the room, too. All of them surrounding Cas's unconscious form, waiting with baited breath.

Cas started stirring in earnest, now, pulling lightly on the cuffs in his sleep. _Please be Cas,_ Dean thought. He swallowed. Charlie stood.

And Cas opened his eyes.


	46. It's Going to Be Ok

Blue. 

Cas's blue eyes. Brighter than Dean remembered, brilliantly amplifying every source of light inside the room. 

Cas blinked, looking disoriented as Dean fell to his knees by the bed side, forgetting his own pain for a moment. 

_God he's beautiful,_ the thought surprised Dean as he looked at Cas's messy hair and sweat-soaked skin. Even now, heavy lidded and exhausted, Cas was a masterpiece. And Dean felt a horrible guilt-ridden wrenching feeling in his stomach as he thought it. 

“Cas?” Dean questioned softly, pushing the thought from his mind. But, an even more betraying idea struck him as he took in Cas's form: _Is it really him?_

With even more purpose, Dean shook his head, putting this idea aside. _Blue,_ he thought again to himself as he spied Cas's bright eyes. _Blue. Of course it's Cas._

Cas's face looked confused, to say the least, as he slowly registered his surroundings, trying to orient himself. His gaze fell on Dean and he stopped. 

“Dean?” he croaked softly, his voice hoarse and weak. 

Dean smiled, feeling reassurance flood through him. “Yeah, Cas,” he breathed, unable to hide the relief from his voice. “It's me. It's Dean.” Dean motioned to Sam and Charlie's forms standing beside the bed. “All of us are here.” 

Cas shifted in Dean's bed, trying to sit up. He pulled his arm to the left and it was immediately yanked back with the pressure of the chain. Cas looked down at the metal ringing his hands as his eyes followed the chains all the way down to the floor. He stared at the spot where they ended, bolted into the floor. And, for a moment, his face was unreadable. 

Then, he looked up at Dean, his breathing increasing. 

“What?” Cas said, turning his head around more frantically, starting to pull at the chains, testing their solid hold. “What's going on?” he said, confused. He looked up at Dean, his eyes pleading: 

“Dean?” 

In a second, Dean's hands were on Cas's shoulders, holding him in place, attempting to calm Cas with his touch. But Cas pulled free, looking more distraught than ever. 

“Cas, it's ok,” Dean said, though his words seemed lost on Cas. “It's just a precaution.” 

And Dean grew more and more uncomfortable as he watched Cas claw at the metal, breathing faster and faster, ignoring Dean's words and any gesture to placate him. 

“Shit,” Dean said, turning to Sam. “Get him out of these,” he said, motioning to the handcuffs. 

Sam paused, glancing at Cas who had now kicked his covers to the ground as he picked at his skin underneath the metal rings and thrashed on the bed. 

“I'm not sure we should,” Sam said tentatively, trying to keep his voice calm and soothing despite the growing anxiety in the room. Despite the sounds of the slackened part of the chains slapping on the floor in loud succession with Cas's attempts to free himself, or the way the metal clinked against metal, the sound grating and aggressive. 

But Dean stood, challenging Sam with an intensely livid expression. 

“He's having a fucking panic attack,” said Dean, his voice on fire. When Sam hesitated again, Dean pointed to Cas's blue eyes which were now fixed solely on the cuffs as he pulled. 

“It's Cas,” Dean said, pleading, then more firmly, putting emphasis on each word as his fists balled by his sides, he said “It's him.” 

Sam paused, looking down at Cas's agitated form, writhing on the bed, now growing louder as he yelled “get these off of me!” and “let me go!” 

It appeared to be an internal struggle for Sam to say the least. But then, his younger brother finally pulled the key from his pocket, nodding as if he'd made his decision. He reached down to Cas, trying to grab the handcuffs, but he shoved him away, his face confused and afraid as he pulled harder at the restraints. Dean put a calming hand on his chest which seemed to slightly help as Sam soothingly talked: 

“I'm just going to take them off, Cas” he said, holding up the key to show him. “See? It's just me. You know me. It's just Sam.” 

Cas still looked apprehensive, but upon seeing the key, he stilled just enough for Sam to get one of the handcuffs off before Cas was scrambling away, swinging his legs off the other side of the bed, placing his head between his knees, still breathing loudly. 

Everyone backed up for a moment, giving Cas some space. It took a matter of minutes, but soon Cas's breathing had slowed, his back still arched into his knees. 

Dean watched him, his chest tight, wanting to reach out to Cas, but staying himself to give him a moment to come back to himself. 

They waited until the ache in Dean's side began to present itself to him again, reminding him of the other night fully. Reminding him that none of them would be whole for awhile. 

Then, finally, Cas looked up, his expression still lost, but somewhat calmer. More grounded. He blinked rapidly, opening his mouth as if he wanted to say something, then paused, closing it again. 

“Cas?” Dean tried again, his voice soft and tentative, then to himself: _Does Cas even remember?_

Cas's eyes finally met Dean's, and he couldn't help but feel relieved. _It's going to be ok,_ he told himself as he watched Cas's internal struggle start to dissipate. And soon, it was Cas again, looking up at him. Calm. Controlled. Level. 

Ashamed. 

_He remembers._

Dean braved a slow step forward. “It's going to be ok,” he said, this time to Cas. “We made it out.” 

For a moment, Cas looked like he might make it through. 

_It's going to be ok,_ Dean thought again. 

Then, Cas threw up. 


	47. Chains

Dean woke to Sam's gentle nudge, his room pitch black. 

“Your shift,” Sam whispered tiredly. 

Dean rolled over, squeezing his eyes against the pain. 

“I'm up,” he croaked, hearing the way his throat evoked its own gravely mark of fatigue. 

His body felt heavy and stiff from lack of sleep, his breaths shallow in an attempt to pacify the near constant flash of pain he felt in his ribs with every little bit of movement. 

He sat up by the side of the bed, wincing, blindly grabbing at the tiny, scattered pills spread across the nightstand by the light of the hallway through the open door. His hands settled on two pills, popping them onto his tongue quickly and reaching for the smooth surface of his forgotten beer bottle. 

He pulled it towards him, using the bitter flat warmth of the liquid to wash down the little white opiates with a sigh. _Liquid courage,_ he thought, feeling a rush of shame flow through him. 

“Dean, a beer?” Sam said, whispering as to not wake Charlie who was still eliciting tiny snores next to Dean on the large bed. Still, even with Sam's apparent disapproval, he broached the subject (like everything concerning Dean since they'd found Cas) cautiously. “Are you sure that's a good idea?” Sam continued tentatively. 

“It's a beer, Sam, not Vodka,” Dean said, with a tinge of defensiveness. 

He pushed himself out of bed, grunting. And, he felt his frustration grow when Sam, instead of heading to bed after his shift with Cas, decided Dean needed an escort to walk him to his room. 

When they were halfway down the hall, Dean turned to him. “What are you doing, Sam? Making sure I make it home safe from the prom?” 

Sam looked uncomfortable, but didn't take the bait. Dean studied his brother's shadowed face. And there it was again. The pity. 

“I was going to go get a drink from the kitchen. . .” Sam rubbed at the back of his neck, awkwardly. Dean spotted the lie instantly, feeling the urge to groan. But then he was struck with the image of tired rings around his brother's eyes. It had been two days since they'd made it home. Two incredibly long days. The bulge of Sam's bandages across his abdomen jutted out under his shirt, his eyelids half closed with fatigue. And yet, he was here. Walking Dean to his own room in the middle of the night to see Cas so he wouldn't have to do it alone. It was a gesture. An unnecessary, ridiculous one, but a gesture nonetheless. 

Dean nodded and turned around, secretly glad to hear the soft padding of Sam's footsteps as they walked up to the door. The light was on inside the room, the excess spilling out the bottom of the door to the hall. Dean knocked. 

He waited a moment, but there was no answer. Not that he expected one. 

After a minute, Dean opened the door slowly, dipping his head inside. 

Cas was sitting cross-legged on the bed, a pencil in his right hand, a notebook on his lap. His brows were creased in concentration as his pencil moved in long, sweeping motions across the paper. 

“You gave him a notebook,” Dean whispered to Sam, a little surprised. 

“Yeah,” Sam said behind him, his voice a little more nervous now, “I just thought that maybe—” 

Dean cut him off before he could apologize. 

“It was a good idea, Sam,” he said, quietly. His little brother returned the praise with a small, empathetic smile, overflowing with concern. 

Dean closed the door on it. 

“Night Dean,” he heard before Dean clicked it shut, quieting him completely. Then, he was alone again with Cas. 

Cas paused when Dean sat down next to him in the chair they'd brought in from the living room. He glanced up at Dean, blue eyes unreadable before looking back down and continuing his work. 

Dean sat for an awkward moment before saying anything. 

“Hey Cas,” Dean said finally, tentatively, leaning forward, ignoring the jolt of pressure against his ribs as he did. “How are you feeling tonight?” 

Dean glanced at tonight's tray of food brought in by Sam. The grilled cheese had small, unimpressive bite marks in the bread, and Dean was sure it had taken some serious coaxing from Sam to even get Cas to eat that much. _Let alone sleep,_ Dean thought, spying the clock by the bedside. 

Cas stopped for a second, not looking up. It took a minute before he answered. “A little better,” Cas said tentatively, and went back to his drawing. It was an obvious lie. He could see the veins of red inside the whites of Cas's eyes. 

Dean nodded anyway. He looked at Cas, finding himself unsure of what to think about the situation they found themselves in. He stared Cas's right wrist still chained to the floor beside the bed, disapprovingly. 

Cas caught him looking at it and let his pencil relax in his grip, but didn't look directly at him. There was a pointed pause and then: 

“No Dean,” Cas said firmly, “It stays.” 

Dean sighed, running his hands through his hair, forcing himself to swallow down an angry response. 

“Cas—” he started slowly. Carefully. “you're not going to hurt anyone.” 

Dean had said it so many times the last few days, it had started to feel rehearsed as it fell from his tongue. _“You're not going to hurt anyone.” “Let me take it off.” “You're safe now.”_ All the words from the last few days started to feel meaningless as Cas moved his pencil in concentrated effort as he wrote. 

Dean was glad he'd taken his pills before he'd walked into Cas's den. Because they took the edge off of the nagging feeling Dean fought that they'd never really brought Cas back. That they'd left a piece of him back inside the alley. Back inside Cas's beat up apartment. Inside the mansion. That they might not ever get it back. 

Dean had been careful not to push Cas over the last few days, but to say that his patience was wearing thin was an understatement. 

Dean took in Cas's tightened jaw, his eyes fixed darkly on the paper in resolve. 

Then, Cas whispered: “Won't hurt anyone? Like the mob boss? Like the people in the alley? Like you?” He motioned to Dean's face, gesturing to the bruises and scrapes that, even without a mirror, Dean could feel on his skin. 

Suddenly, Cas let his paper and notebook fall from his lap to the floor, forgotten. Then, brokenly: 

“Like Jess?” 

Dean swallowed. From here he could see the pink creases of newly formed scratches inside Cas's palms. Dean felt his breath catching in his throat. 

Dean stood, walking to Cas's side, hesitating. His head was on fire. 

“I'm going to kill him,” Dean whispered to the tangled sheets at Cas's feet. 

Cas laughed—a hollow, eerie sound that resembled almost nothing of the man that Dean knew. 

Dean looked at him in the eyes, firmly. “I can,” he said solidly, knowing it was true. “I will.” 

Cas turned his back away from Dean, settling into the covers as he laid down. “Dean,” he said, his voice quiet, “go to sleep.” 

Dean hesitated, “we were worried,” Dean said in explanation, his voice lacking confidence. 

Cas didn't argue, but Dean felt the sudden urge to leave, anyway. Having someone stay with Cas at all times had been Dean's own plan to keep him from being left alone as he dealt with the aftermath. But clearly it was only making things worse. 

“Alright,” Dean breathed, almost to himself. 

Cas didn't acknowledge it, and for a minute, Dean thought that maybe the he had fallen asleep. Finally. Then, Cas spoke, so low and quiet that Dean felt sure he wasn't meant to actually hear it: 

“Why did you even bring me back?” 

Dean hesitated, his mind pulled back to the night inside Cas's apartment, the pull to touch Cas still present and consuming. And he almost did, his hand unconsciously reaching out to touch Cas's shoulder before he stopped. 

“Because,” said Dean, wondering if it were wise to answer Cas right now, but finding he couldn't stop himself. “This is your home.” 

When Cas didn't answer, Dean reached down and picked up the discarded notebook, not bothering to hide the action. But Cas didn't stop him. Dean shuffled out of his room without another word, shutting the door behind him, making his way to the kitchen. He set the paper down on the table, pulled out a more substantial drink and slumped into one of the chairs. 

When he came back, he flipped the notebook over, wondering what he would find. 

He didn't expect to find the beautiful, almost photographic sketches Cas had drawn of himself in a tan trench coat, hands firmly grasping the angel blade at his side. Didn't expect to find the beautiful sweeping outline of wings growing from the angel's back. Didn't expect to find the brilliant confidence of past years on each of Cas's replicas. 

Didn't expect to find the artfully written words at the bottom of the page: 

“I'm no angel.” 

Then, in contrast to the the rest of the paper's artful calligraphy, there was one statement at the bottom of the paper, written in a hasty, unsteady hand: 

“I'm sorry, Dean.” 

Dean flipped the notebook over, taking a deep swig of his drink, the now familiar ache returning to his chest. Cas was home. It was all Dean had ever wanted. And he was forced to finally admit it might not be enough. 


	48. Jack

“Thanks, Garth, you've been a really big help” Sam said, before hanging up the phone. He pocketed it, then got up to find Dean. 

He passed Charlie's sleepy, pajama-clad form in the hall as she shuffled past him. 

“Seen Dean?” he asked. 

She shook her head with a yawn, walking in the direction of the kitchen. Sam sighed. Even with four people, the bunker was quiet to an unsettling degree. When Cas first woke up, Sam thought Dean would concentrate on spending his time inside Cas's room, checking on him. And, Dean did—bringing Cas meals, unlocking his cuffs intermittently for showers and bathroom breaks. But soon after, Dean would slink back into the undiscovered corridors of the bunker. 

At first Sam thought it was a ploy to keep Cas's cuffs off for longer and longer periods of time by “forgetting” to come back and re-secure them. While that was probably very true, it was also clear that there was something more going on. It was as if Dean actually couldn't stand being around Cas for too long before he felt the need to isolate himself again. Not to mention the way the liquor cabinet stash had started to visibly decline. 

_Where are you, Dean?_ Sam thought, opening a second door then shutting it again softly when he'd found the lights turned off. Finally, a few doors down, he spotted a thin line of light from under a door. He walked toward it and slowly opened it 

Inside, Dean was bent over an open laptop, with a bottle of Jack Daniel's next to him, the brown liquid dipped below the label. He turned toward the door, a tinge startled to see Sam, before nodding at his younger brother. 

“Heya Sammy,” he said softly, head dropping back to the screen. 

Sam walked over, grabbing a seat next to his brother and sat down. He glanced at the article Dean was scanning: 

_Ptsd and sexual abuse._

As soon as Dean noticed Sam glancing at the article he quickly closed it, looking uncomfortable. 

“I—,” he started, then stopped. 

Sam leaned forward in his chair, folding his arms on the tabletop. He felt for his brother. He felt for Cas. But he couldn't help but think that it was time the two men finally had an in-depth talk. 

“Dean,” Sam said, deciding to dive right in, “have you talked to Cas? Like, really talked to him?” 

Dean didn't answer right away. Sam waited Dean out. He knew Dean well enough to know when to stay quiet. 

It took less than a minute and Dean's walls crumbled. 

“I don't know what to say to him,” Dean said, finally, unable to look him in the eye. And Sam couldn't help but think how strange it was to see such an open version of Dean. “Do I ask about Crowley?” Dean continued softly, “Do I ask about—?” his voice broke, then he finally looked at Sam. “Sam, where the hell do I even start?” 

Sam eyed the laptop, seeing Dean's sincerity. It wasn't like Dean to stop and look at an issue so thoroughly. To examine the emotions of it. And Sam couldn't help but think it was a testament to how much Dean cared about Cas to find him here, looking up articles. To even attempt to try and address the truth and reality of the issues head on. With sincerity. 

Dean had lost Cas before, but this time it was different. He could see it in Dean's expression. Something had changed, and this time Dean would do anything not to lose Cas again. It was an evolution Sam had wondered for a long time if he'd ever see in his brother. 

And yet, Dean had a point. Where do you start with something this big? 

Dean propped his hands on top of the laptop, defeated. 

“I'm not sure he even wants to go back there. To any of it. Let alone with me.” 

“Is that why you've been staying away?” Sam broached carefully. 

Dean pursed his lips. “I don't want to. More than anything, I feel like he just wants me gone.” Then, with a little more emotion: “Can you blame him, Sam?” He looked at Sam, his eyes bloodshot with tired rings around them. Quietly, he confessed: “I did this to him.” 

Sam nodded again, not arguing. Dean wasn't ready to hear another version of the story. Not now. Instead, Sam tried to convey a sense of sympathy. But still, he held with his original premise: 

“Talk to him,” he said again. “Dean, he may not know it yet, but he needs someone there for him right now.” 

Dean looked up, but Sam corrected before his brother could say anything. “You. He needs _You._ Maybe even more because of all the shit between you two.” 

Dean stared at the wall for a second, then he let his head fall into his palms with a heavy sigh. He wasn't crying, but Sam couldn't help but wonder his hands weren't a wall hiding something from Sam. It wasn't often Dean displayed vulnerability like this, and Sam was left wondering if he hadn't pushed too far. Maybe he was giving the wrong advice. But, somewhere deep inside him, he believed that Dean and Cas could fix this if they would just finally be honest with each other. He just hoped it wouldn't break one of them in the process. 

He could hear Dean's breaths against his palms. 

“Let him know you're there,” Sam continued. “Then let him guide the conversation where he wants to start.” 

Dean finally freed his face from his hands to take a heavy swig of Jack right from the bottle. He bit his lip, hard, and had a stern expression on his face. Sam thought he was upset at first, but then, his older brother looked him in the eyes. 

“Ok,” he said tentatively. “I'll try.” 


	49. The Talk

Dean rapped on Cas's door softly, feeling the hollow vibrations through his knuckles as he did. 

This time, Cas answered: “Come in, Dean.” 

Dean opened the door with a curious look on his face. Cas noted it quickly, then dropped his head back to the book he was reading. 

“You have a different knock,” Cas said in explanation. When Dean didn't say anything, Cas continued: “Charlie's is fast. Sam's is hard. And yours is. . . careful.” 

Dean didn't reply. He shut the door behind him, taking his place next to the bed. First, he leaned forward, clasping his hands together on his knees. He let the pressure go, unfurling his fingers and rubbing his palms across the denim of his thighs. As if the friction might help some of the tension escape. 

Dean swallowed. “Cas,” he started. “Is that what you want? For me to be careful with you?” His voice was tentative, and the irony wasn't lost on him as he waited for Cas's reply. 

Slowly, Cas shut his book and set it aside. He ran his hand across his face tiredly, and Dean winced at the sound of clinking chains against the floor. Dean felt glad Cas missed his reaction. 

Cas sighed. “I don't know,” he finally said. 

Dean nodded, trying to keep his face neutral as he scooted his chair forward. Cas's eyes flicked up to Dean's face, surprised by the sudden movement. 

“Ok,” Dean said, settling into the chair after adjusting one of the pillows awkwardly. “So. . . we take it one step at a time. Do you—” Dean hesitated, tapping his thumb rapidly against his thigh. “ _If_ you want to, you know, talk. . . about. . . about whatever, I'm uh. . . I just want you know. . . I'm here. To listen. If you need it.” 

The words caught in Dean's throat, coming out scratchy and unimpressive. And Cas wasn't wrong. As Dean looked at the curved gashes in the palm of Cas's hands, he felt protective. And afraid—that at any moment Cas would shatter, and Dean would lose him again the way he had when Cas had taken on Sam's memories of hell. Dean was treating him carefully, even if it had taken Cas to point it out to him. 

Suddenly, Dean realized Cas was staring at him. His eyes were squinted, his head tilted like he was analyzing him, and Dean shuffled awkwardly in his seat, feeling exposed. 

“What?” Dean finally asked. 

Then, Cas's gaze shifted to an intense stare, his face formidable and intimidating. Flashes of his days as an angel came to Dean's mind. 

“What are you trying to do, Dean?” and this time, it was clear. Cas was angry. 

Dean recoiled a little, raising his hands in the air. “Look,” he said, “I'm just trying to, you know. . . talk.” Dean winced around the last word, suddenly feeling more and more like this was a bad idea. 

Cas blinked, deflating. “To talk. . .” he said hollowly, as if the word itself was foreign to him. 

Dean shrugged uncomfortably. “Yeah,” he said. “To talk.” 

Cas pulled his knees to his chest on the bed, clutching at his shins as he chewed the idea over in his mind. Dean couldn't help but think how innocent the action looked for a being that was millions of years old. For a man that had wielded weapons and worn blood far more often than he'd been free of it. And yet, here he was, blue eyes red-rimmed and exhausted as he stared at his toes. Trying to wrap his mind around the fact that someone wanted to talk to him. Wanted to hear what Cas had to say. 

“I should have done this a long time ago,” Dean said quietly. It was out of his mouth before he registered he was saying it. It caught Cas's attention immediately. 

Cas furrowed his eyebrows, looking more confused than ever. “Talked?” he asked, repeating the word in the same distant fashion as before. 

Dean nodded again, and the room fell into an uncomfortable silence. Suddenly, Dean could hear their breaths, and felt conscious of every tiny movement he made. Should he say something else? _Damn it, Sam,_ he cursed inside his head. 

But then, finally, Cas spoke: “What do you want me to talk about?” 

Dean raised his eyebrows, licking his lips quickly to disperse the sudden dryness he felt. 

“Uh, we could start with the night you were. . . the night I found you. . . at the mansion. . .” Dean's voice trailed off as he watched Cas's eyes close tightly, his whole body stiffening in response. 

Dean coughed, “Ok,” he said, “Never mind. Let's not start there.” 

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck, watching Cas's tense demeanor, growing frustrated. “God,” Dean finally yelled, exasperated. “Why is this so fucking hard?” 

And suddenly, Dean was standing, pacing at the side of Cas's bed. “You know what? No. You don't want to be treated with kitt gloves? Well then, I won't. Here's the truth: Cas, I am so fucking worried about you right now.” 

Dean stopped his movements long enough to see an unreadable expression on Cas's face before he continued, Dean's voice broke with the uncomfortable vulnerability of his confessions. He couldn't bring himself to look at Cas again as he talked, though he could feel his eyes following his movements. 

“Hell, you're not the only one losing sleep,” said Dean nervously. 

He was pacing frantically, now, his words fast and intense. “And it didn't start when I found you in that mansion, or even when Crowley turned you into the fucking terminator. . .” 

Dean paused, finally braving Cas's blue eyes a second time. “Honesty," Dean said out loud as a reminder to himself of what he was doing. Telling Cas the truth. Finally. "It started the moment I shoved you graceless and hunted from the bunker to fend for yourself," Dean confessed. "And I've been worried about you every day since." 

Suddenly, Dean felt heavy, dropping back into his chair, tired from his sudden outburst. 

Cas blinked, still looking confused. Then, quietly: “You were worried about me?” 

Dean swallowed, as realization fell on him. This _is what I should have started with,_ he thought, feeling guilt spread through him. 

“Cas,” he said, his voice gentle again, lacking the fire of his speech only moments before. “What do you know about an angel named Gadreel?” 


	50. Oreos

Sam glanced at Dean's door from the hallway on his way to the kitchen. He'd heard Dean go in a half hour ago, and his brother was still in there. Sam couldn't decide if that was a good sign, or a bad one. Either way, at least Dean and Cas were talking. 

Sam sighed as he walked into the kitchen, grabbing himself an Oreo from the cupboard. 

“Hey,” said Charlie as she entered the room. She walked right up to Sam, grabbing his Oreo and taking a bite before sitting down at the table. 

She sat with her legs crisscrossed on the chair before shrugging with a guilty look on her face. 

“Can I have an Oreo?” she asked, trying to sound innocent as she took another bite. 

Sam grabbed the package and joined her, setting the cookies on the table. 

“You know that works better if you ask _before_ you take the cookie, right?” he said. 

Charlie shrugged, wincing a tiny bit as she did. She tried to hide it, looking away. 

Sam scowled, eyes roaming over the good-sized bruise on the side of her eye. The black of the bruise had started to seep away, leaving a yellow-blue hue to her skin next to a long red scratch on her temple. He'd seen that she'd been hurt, but things had been so crazy the last few days with Cas, he hadn't noticed how bad it was. 

Without thinking, Sam's hand raised to her face, lightly touching the spot, his expression concerned. 

Charlie swallowed uncomfortably. 

“That one's from Cas,” she said, her voice coming out scratchy. 

Sam pulled his hand away, his eyes apologetic. He felt that way right now. Sorry. For Cas. For Charlie. For Dean. For everyone. Like he wished somehow he could have shielded everyone from this. 

Charlie's gaze drowned in the black of the table below her. 

“I'm sorry,” Sam said. 

Silence. 

It was only two words, and Sam wasn't prepared for the way the small apology cracked the surface of Charlie's emotions. For the way she started to tear up a little, wiping her tear ducts before any water actually reached her face. 

“Damn it, Sam,” she said, pulling at her sleeves until they covered up her palms, then tucking her hair behind her ears with both hands. “Don't make me cry.” 

But Sam found himself inappropriately smiling warmly at the sight. 

Charlie furrowed her eyebrows. 

“What are you smiling at?” she barked, clearly annoyed. 

Sam sobered his face, sitting up straighter. 

“I'm sorry,” he said again, though this time it was lighter. “It's just. . . really nice to see someone reacting. . . well, normally.” 

Charlie looked confused, so Sam continued: “I dunno, I guess I'm just not sure any of us are the most emotionally healthy people around here, and honestly, it's kind of nice to see someone reacting the way normal people probably would. I mean this whole situation is pretty. . . fucked up.” 

Charlie gave him an incredulous look. “I wouldn't exactly call myself 'normal,' Sam.” 

Sam shrugged. “We set the bar pretty low around here.” 

And soon they were both smiling. It didn't last long, but Sam found it lifted a small amount of weight from his shoulders—until Charlie shifted and winced again. 

Sam swallowed. “Y'know that wasn't really Cas. He would never have. . .” 

Charlie reached out a hand, placing it over one of Sam's that was resting on the tabletop. 

“I know, Sam. I know it wasn't him,” she said. “I'm ok. Really.” 

Reluctantly, Sam nodded, and Charlie let him go. 

“Honestly,” she said, leaning back. She looked in the direction of Dean's room. “I'm more worried about whether or not the two of them can get through this.” 

Sam tilted his head, a little surprised. Everyone knew that Dean cared about Cas. A lot. It was fairly obvious. But Sam wasn't sure how many people's hunches went beyond jokes and suspicion about their relationship as possibly being something more. 

“How'd you figure it out?” he asked. 

“I've been in love before,” she said plainly. But, it was clear from her tone she didn't want to talk about it. So, Sam nodded, dropping it. 

Still, Charlie looked in the direction of Dean's room. 

“They have a lot of obstacles ahead,” she said, her voice sad. “More than it would take most people to not make it.” 

She looked at Sam, her face showing clear concern. Sam thought of Cas, kneeling in the alleyway, covered in blood, the ground in front of him littered in bodies, and he knew she couldn't be closer to the truth. It would be a long, hard road for them. And he hoped to God they wouldn't lose Cas in the process. Hoped to God Dean wouldn't lose Cas. Not again. 

Sam sighed, his chest starting to hurt. 

“Then again,” Charlie continued, pulling him from his thoughts, “Those two have never been 'most people,' have they?” 

Sam smiled, shaking his head. He licked his lips, then pursed them, looking into Charlie's eyes. 

“Charlie,” he said, “thank-you for coming to find Cas. And thank-you for fighting alongside us in the alley.” 

Charlie's eyes glanced down at the space where Sam knew his bandages jutted out on top of his still-healing bullet wound, then back up to his face. 

“Always,” she said, then nodded to Dean's room. “He's grateful for you too, you know. Even if he sucks at saying it.” 

Sam nodded. “I know.” 


	51. You Belong Here

Dean waited out the silence, anxiously. Cas was still staring at a spot on the wall, taking in the things Dean had said with a furrowed brow. 

“So,” Cas said, his expression unreadable, “Sam's ok?” 

Dean nodded. “Yeah, Cas,” he said. “Sammy's ok now. But the point is, I never wanted you to leave. I always wanted you here.” 

“Always wanted me here. . .” Cas repeated hollowly. His eyes were still unfocused and glossed over, and Dean couldn't help but wonder if he had gone somewhere else entirely in his head. 

Dean leaned forward, putting a hand on Cas's arm. “Cas,” he said carefully, “do you understand what I'm saying right now?” 

But Cas didn't answer. Instead, he stared at Dean's hand wrapped lightly around his forearm. He wasn't pulling away, but Dean felt sick when he finally realized the expression. 

“Are you—” Dean started, staring at his own hand, loosening his grip. “Cas, are you worried I'll hurt you?” 

Cas shook his head, still staring at the offending hand. “No,” he said, swallowing. But Cas was holding his breath. 

Slowly, Dean put his hand back in his lap, surveying Cas. And he tried not to admit how much it hurt to see Cas relax when Dean's hand was gone. Because, even if the idea was new to Dean, he realized how much he needed to feel Cas. How comforting it was to connect to his skin. It wasn't even a sexual desire. It was a need. To break up the enormous amount of space between them. 

And suddenly, Dean couldn't clear his mind of all the other people that had touched Cas. Had hurt him. 

“Cas, we would never hurt you,” said Dean, frustrated. “None of us would. I would never hurt you.” 

Cas looked away. “I could hurt _you_ ,” he said quietly. 

“C'mon Cas,” said Dean, “that was Crowley. _He_ did this shit to you. You know better than that.” 

Cas squared his jaw, sitting up. “Do I, Dean?” he said defensively. “Why don't you tell me what to think. You seem to be so good at it these days.” 

Dean's mouth gaped open slightly, “What is that supposed to mean?” 

Cas ran his hands through his hair, and Dean watched the way the chain on his hand grazed the bed as he did. 

“Cas, you won't hurt anyone,” Cas said, mimicking Dean's voice. “Cas, take off the chains. Cas, you're home now.” 

“You _are_ home now,” Dean balked. The last few days he'd seen Cas broken, beaten, drugged, red-eyed and murderous, but this was the first time he'd truly seen him angry. 

“I'm not an angel anymore,” Cas said. “I can't help you. Not like I used to.” 

Dean leaned forward. “That's not why—” 

Cas cut him off. “Besides,”he said. “I've done—” 

Cas pursed his lips, his fists tightening into the blankets. 

“You were there,” Cas said, his voice suddenly cold. “You want to talk about the mansion? About the man who fucked, slapped and bit me like a toy, until I snapped and killed him on the floor?” 

Cas was scooting closer now, his voice getting faster and more intense. “Or, maybe, we should talk about the night in the alley. Yes, Dean, I remember all of it. Every snap and feel of the necks that broke beneath my hands. I remember the blood. The screams.” 

Cas was close now, in Dean's face, his own features dark. “I remember what it felt like with my hands around you, too. I almost killed you, Dean,” he said. “I wanted to.” 

“Stop it, Cas,” Dean said in warning, but he couldn't hide the unnerved reaction in his tone. “That was Crowley. . .” 

Cas's eyes darkened. “Was it?” he said. But, even though his expression was fierce, Dean could hear the question behind it. As if part of Cas wasn't sure what the answer really was. 

“Cas,” Dean said, his heart beating fast, “I know this is a shitty situation. And, I know I wasn't here before. But I'm here now.” 

Cas swallowed, curling in on himself, making his form small. “Do you want to know how many men, Dean?” he asked. “How many men I slept with for money?” And the shame was evident, seeping into every word. 

Cas looked up to Dean's face, blue eyes peering deep and probing for an answer. 

Dean swallowed, unable to speak for a moment, and he realized his fingers were digging into the arms of the chair. He removed them with difficulty, setting his hands on his knees. 

It took a long, long time for Dean to get himself to say it. Cas waited, silent for Dean to speak. 

Finally, Dean let a feeble “no” slip from his mouth as he stared down guiltily at the bed. 

As if it were the answer Cas expected, he nodded to himself, pulling the covers over his knees. Still, the hurt was evident in his face. He rolled over to his side, closing his eyes. 

“I need some sleep,” Cas said quietly, when Dean didn't take the hint. 

Dean hesitated, but then rose up out of his chair, making his way to the door. He opened it, feeling the heaviness in his chest. He didn't want to leave. Not like this. But he opened the door anyway, slipping into the hallway with one last glimpse at Cas's form on the bed. Dean closed the door slowly, resting his forehead on the wood. 

“You belong here, Cas,” Dean said loud enough to make sure Cas heard him through the barrier. Always have. Always will.” 


	52. Come in

Dean felt his feet move beneath him. Much faster than his brain could catch up, and his movements felt like they carried him, not the other way around. And, when he finally found Charlie and Sam making dinner in the kitchen, the words were out of his mouth almost the second he breached the door: 

“I'm going to kill Crowley,” he said, his tone furious. His hands balled into fists at his side. 

He looked at Charlie who had stopped stirring the pot she was working over to look at Dean. Sam, similarly, had stopped cutting carrots and had turned, knife in hand to give his attentions to his brother. 

Dean looked for either of them to dispute him. To say something. In fact, he expected it. Instead, his brother and friend looked at him as if waiting for him to continue. 

Dean narrowed his eyes on Sam. “You're not going to try and talk me out of it?” he asked earnestly. 

Sam put the knife down, leaning with his palms against the front of the counter. “No, Dean,” he said. “Of course not. If anything, I've been surprised it's taken you so long to say it.” 

Dean swallowed. In truth, in the back of his head, he'd fantasized about killing Crowley. Slowly. Painfully. But the front of his attention was inundated with thoughts of Cas, pushing revenge to the back burner. 

And then there was the real reason. The one he was unwilling to say out loud—even to two of the people he cared about most in the world; Going after Crowley meant leaving Cas. 

Dean shook the thoughts out of his mind, uncomfortably. 

“So you're not going to try and stop me, then?” Dean said, deflecting. 

Charlie turned off the burner. Sam stepped away from the counter and walked close to Dean. 

“He hurt Cas,” Sam said quietly. “Of course we aren't going to stop you.” 

And, even if Dean was grateful for the answer, he was surprised at it. He knew it was because Sam understood what Cas meant to him. Because there would have been a time his brother would have tried to stop him. Dean wasn't sure how he felt about Sam's new attitude, but it worked in his favor for right now, so he didn't argue. 

Dean nodded. “Good,” he said, “because I need you two to watch over Cas. I'll leave tomorrow morning. 

Then, there it was, the argument. Sam held his hands up in protest immediately. 

“What? Wait a second,” he argued. “Dean, I know you're upset, but we don't even have a plan here. This is Crowley we're talking about.” 

But Dean cut him off before he could say anything else. “I know what to do,” he said darkly. “Trust me,” he said, “I'll be fine. What I need is someone to watch Cas right now.” 

“Dean,” Sam said, jaw tight, “Cas will be fine. He's in the bunker. We can add some extra security precautions. Hell, Garth said he'd be getting here sometime today with the delivery we asked him for. He can look after Cas.” 

Sam put a hand on Dean's arm in an attempt to comfort him. “Dean, Cas will be fine,” he said. 

Dean shrugged out of his brother's clutch. “Yeah,” Dean spat, “like he's been fine for the last ten months.” 

Dean's chin dropped in challenge. “I'm sorry if you don't like it, but I'm telling you I have a way. A plan. It's not reckless. Hell, it's barely even dangerous. Trust me,” he said in all seriousness. “He'll be dead and I won't have to get a single scratch on me.” 

Both Sam and Charlie's eyes narrowed at this statement in curiosity. But, before they could ask for clarity, they heard a knock at the door. 

Dean smirked, glad at the interruption: “Garth's here.” 

Sam gave Dean a look that said _we're not done talking._

“Trust me,” Dean whispered to Sam again in reply. But, Sam didn't look placated. 

Sam and Dean made their way quietly to the door while Charlie returned to the kitchen. Dean subtly wrapped his hand around his gun as he watched the features of Garth's face appear in the doorway as he opened it. From the corner of his eye, he could see Sam doing the same. 

Garth smiled enthusiastically. “Two of my favorite people, ready and waiting for me like a greeting party!” he said, seeming particularly thrilled. Dean loosened his grip on his gun, eyeing the box in Garth's hands. 

He looked at it, feeling his mouth go dry a little. “That everything?” he asked his smaller friend. 

Garth nodded. “ Hello to you too,” he said, jokingly, then when Dean didn't bite he finally answered. “Everything,” he said, handing it over to Dean. Dean set it on the ground out of the way, uncomfortably, trying not to notice Sam's sympathetic glances as he did. 

Dean cleared his throat. “Thanks, man,” he said. 

Garth smiled, “Of course,” he said, stretching. “But, it's been a long ride. Are y'all going to invite me in, or what?” he said. Dean could see Sam smiling as he moved to the left a little to allow their friend inside. Dean moved to shut the door behind them, when he glanced down the lane in the front of the bunker. 

“Garth,” Dean whispered, grabbing his gun and cocking it. “Did you come here alone?” 

At that question, Sam's gun was out and ready as Dean's brother peered outside the bunker door into the surrounding landscape and the hazy features soaked in the light of the setting sun. 

Garth shook his head in confirmation, finally getting with the program and taking his own gun out. 

Dean leaned forward. “There,” he said, pointing behind the trunk of a thick tree. It was hard to see, but Dean could tell the moment when recollection fell on Sam. 

“C'mon,” Dean said. He gestured for Sam to follow and Garth to stay as he and his brother quietly walked to the tree, guns leading the way. Dean's eyes scanned the trees and surrounding landscapes for snipers or other possible intruders, but convinced that this one was the only culprit, they made their way closer to the spot of skin Dean had spotted behind the tree. Closer. Closer. 

Dean was hiding behind a tree, and Sam was hiding behind one next to him, close enough to hear the intruder's heavy breaths, as if they'd been running. 

Dean held up his fingers, counting down to Sam. Three. Two. One. 

In unison, the brothers rounded the tree, training their guns on the trespasser. But it wasn't Crowley. Or the mob boss. It was a pretty girl with long blonde hair and plastered on makeup with mascara running down the sides of her face. She crouched at the sight of the guns, raising her hands in the air, looking genuinely scared. Dean blinked in surprise, glancing at Sam who wore a similar expression. 

“Who the hell are you?” Dean said, keeping his gun raised, doing a double take of the area around them to be sure they were alone. She could be bait. 

The girl swallowed, a tear streaming down her face, giving her another black marked line down her cheek. 

“Sasha,” she said, her accent clearly Russian. “My name is Sasha.” Her voice was strained and timid. 

“You with the mob?” he accused, tightening his grip on his gun. 

She looked scared at that, eyes widening. “No,” she said, “Not the mob. I followed the man in the suit.” 

Sasha stared down at the ground, looking timid as if she were talking to herself. “I. . .followed her when they took her. To the alley. I saw from a window. . .” her voice cracked, and she stopped, choking in shame, “I left,” she said, crying. “I left her there, and when I came back, she was gone. . .” 

“The man in the suit, I overheard him on a phone call. He said the name Cas. I never met him, but he was a friend of Jess's,” she continued. “So I took a car and followed the man. I parked it down at the end of the lane and walked here.” 

She was completely crying at this point, staggering her breaths and words between each sob. 

“I just need to know,” she said, her voice breaking. “Is she dead? Is Jess dead?” 

Dean let his gun fall to his side, understanding finding him. He turned to Sam, using his hand to push his brother's gun down. 

Then, slowly, Dean crouched down beside the girl, his chest starting to ache. _God,_ he thought, _the girl from the coffee shop._ And he suddenly wondered at his own inability to see the fact that they'd been the only ones hurt that day in the alley. 

Dean swallowed, his voice hesitant. “You should probably come inside,” he said. 


	53. Need

The girl, Sasha, sat at the table, hands wrapped around a cup of tea Charlie had brought her, her face finally starting to clear of tears, though the girl's eyes were still red and puffy. In the room next, Dean could hear Garth's boisterous voice talking to Charlie. 

Sam pulled Dean into the hall, his face clearly confused. 

“What the hell is going on,” Sam said, tilting his head in a discreet gesture towards Sasha. 

Dean sighed, pursing his lips. “Cas had a friend, a girl, back in the city,” Dean started uncomfortably. “I didn't know her name until Cas said it here, and I don't have any proof, but I got the impression that she's—” Dean's shoulders tensed as he tripped over the words. He swallowed against a dry mouth, willing himself to continue. “I got the impression that they were in the same line of work.” 

Sam raised his eyebrows, waiting for more information, clearly still trying to put the pieces together. 

Dean shoved his hands in his pockets, hoping Sam would figure it out with his help. His brain haunted him with images of her hand holding Cas's at the coffee shop, and then the disturbing picture of the mob boss's hands wrapped around her waist while she whined against the gag in her mouth. Then there was the sound of her neck snapping as he helplessly watched. 

“The girl in the alley,” Dean said quietly. 

Then, Dean watched as realization dawned on Sam's face. Sam looked at Sasha. 

“Jess. . .” he said softly. 

Dean nodded, “Yeah,” he said, unable to hide the regret in his voice. “It's the same girl. It has to be.” 

Sam looked at Sasha, pity clear in his expression. Dean nodded, then turned to go to back to the table. Sam's hand caught his elbow and Dean looked up, surprised. 

“Wait,” said Sam. “What are we going to tell her?” 

Dean stopped, closing his eyes against the echoes of Jess's muffled cries inside the alley in his head. 

“The truth” Dean said plainly. 

Sam gaped at him. “Everything?” he stuttered. 

Dean looked at Sam, his face serious. “Of course not,” he said. “But she at least deserves to know about Jess. Even if we aren't. . . specific.” 

Sam swallowed, nodding. “Yeah,” he said in agreement, even if he looked a little sad about it. 

And, with that, both brothers slowly made their way to the table sitting down to tell Sasha the fate of her friend. 

* * * 

Dean finished putting the sheets on the couch, making up a bed for their new visitor. It had been a long day of surprises, and he felt for Sasha, he really did, but he still felt weird about making up a bed for her. She was practically a stranger to them, and yet when it had gotten dark and Sam had offered for her to stay, Dean couldn't find it in himself to say no. Not with images of Jess still in his head. 

Still, he found himself pulled to Cas's room as if he needed an extra guard despite the fact that the woman weighed significantly less than Charlie. 

He hovered outside the door, thinking of the last time he had been inside the room. The way Cas had looked at him. The way Dean felt so helpless and hopeless near him. The way Dean couldn't protect Cas, even if he wanted to, because the worst things that could possibly happen to Cas had already happened. The way that Dean couldn't shake the feeling that it was his fault, despite the fact that protecting Cas was everything he wanted right now. 

Dean's hands tightened into fists, and he quietly pushed one of them against the outside of the door as if fighting the urge to punch through it. 

Dean held himself there, in stasis, as if waiting for the answer to fall on him. On them. And, suddenly, Dean realized, he could probably wait forever and never find the right words. The right time. An adequate apology. But, he didn't have forever. He had tonight. 

Suddenly, without knocking, Dean opened Cas's door, storming in. 

The lights were out, which surprised Dean. Still, the fish tank in the corner of the room cast blue waves of light across the blankets. The fish in the tank swam lazily along the sides of the glass, fins brushing against the edge of it. 

Cas turned, blinking at Dean's shadow. He clearly hadn't been alseep. 

“Dean?” Cas sputtered. 

Dean flipped on the light and walked up to Cas. “Yeah, Cas,” he said “It's me.” 

“Look,” Dean continued before Cas could say anything. Before he lost his nerve. “I know I fucked up. I know you're mad. And you have a right to be,” Dean's voice cracked. “I've already said it; I wasn't there for you when you needed me, and I've been fucking everything else up since then pretty fantastically.” 

Cas sat up, still quiet as he took in Dean's words. 

Dean sat down. “I know I don't say the right thing, and I don't know what it's like to go through what you're going through right now, but I'm here,” he said. “I'm trying.” 

And Cas's answer surprised him as the angel muttered a quiet “why?” 

Dean stiffened. “Why?” he gaped. “Come on, Cas, this again? How many times do I need to tell you? You belong here. I never wanted you to leave in the first place.” 

Suddenly Cas leaned forward, his voice starting to raise, his tone thick and deep. “Why, Dean? What can I give you now? I'm not an angel. Look at me,” he said, pulling his chain in the air, showing it off for emphasis. 

“What do you want from me, Dean?” Cas accused. Cas said the last part, his eyes fixed with Dean's. 

Dean leaned back, his vision blurring, his thoughts scattered. “I want. . .” Dean choked. “I need. . .” 

Cas waited, gaze firm. 

“I need you to be ok,” Dean said feebly. 

Cas's head fell as he looked down at his hands and Dean felt his jaw tighten at the deep red gashes he saw in his palms. 

“And if I'm not?” Cas said quietly, almost pleading, his voice laced with pain. 

Dean resisted the urge to reach out and touch Cas's palms, still laying raw and red in his lap. 

Dean swallowed,“Then, I'm going to help you get there.” 

Cas's lips were pursed, his eyes looking over at the fish tank. For a moment, Dean watched on, his heart thumping with anxiety as his eyes skimmed the scruff growing on Cas's jaw line. _Don't shut down on me,_ Dean prayed, despite knowing Cas couldn't hear him. 

Finally, Cas nodded. It was tiny, but firm. 

“Ok,” he consented. 

Dean exhaled in relief. It wasn't everything, but it was a start. A promise that maybe, just maybe, they could build back the trust between them. 

“It's late,” Dean said, noting the bags under Cas's eyes. “But tomorrow, let's talk?” 

Slowly, Cas nodded. 

“Ok,” Dean said, walking back to the door. He reached for the light switch. 

“Dean?” Cas said, stopping him. 

Dean turned: “Yeah, buddy?” 

Cas shuffled uncomfortably, looking down at the blankets. 

“I think. . .” he said quietly, “I think I should probably get tested.” 

It took Dean a moment to process this. To understand. Finally, he nodded. “Ok, Cas,” he choked, “Whenever you're ready, I'll take you.” 

Neither of them spoke as Cas's eyes caught Dean's before he turned off the light and shut the door. 

Dean exhaled heavily when he was alone in the hall, noting the acute silence of the corridor. Quietly, he made his way to the guest bedroom, climbing into bed with Charlie. He tried to digest his thoughts, his mind fixating on two very important ideas: 

Cas wanted his help. 

Crowley would have to wait. 


	54. Red Sky From the East

Dean woke up early the next morning to the silence of the bunker. There was something disquieting about the way the stillness overtook the halls as he padded quietly to the door, grabbing his jacket. He glanced at the strings of long blonde hair spilling out over the sides of the couch's armrest, tuning in to Sasha's quiet inhales. 

The process of opening the door without making a sound was achingly slow, bits of the chill air surging through the small space like suction from a straw. But, eventually, he'd found his way to the wilderness again, shutting the bunker door behind him with a sigh. 

Dean looked out over the dusty, tree-laden terrain that camouflaged the bunker. The primary reds of the sun pressed against the skyline from the east bleeding colors across the foliage and drowning the scenery in glowing light. 

Dean breathed in the morning, holding the stillness in his skin as the warmth calmed his frayed nerves. But then he thought of Cas, chained to the dark prison of his mind, taking tangible form in the thick walls of the bunker. He'd wanted Cas here so badly. But now it was starting to feel like an airtight grave, burying Cas alive. Dean wanted Cas to feel the sun. To breathe. 

Dean closed his eyes, condensing the energy of the sky into his lungs like a cactus. Maybe he could bring some to Cas. Could remind him of the days he rode the clouds with ten-foot wings. Could remind him of when he'd been free like the pictures in the notebook. Before he'd met the Winchester's and fell from the skies, shattered. 

Dean took a deep breath, filling his lungs before stepping back inside the bunker. Sasha had moved in her sleep, her arm jutting out from the blankets and falling off the couch. 

Quietly, Dean tiptoed to Cas's room and knocked. He waited, crossing his fingers that Cas would be up, and found himself relieved to hear him mutter “come in.” 

Dean opened the door, biting back a small smile at Cas's disheveled hair, feeling the warmth of the sun still heating the insides of his chest. Tugging at the weak hope from Cas's words last night from inside him. 

“Cas,” Dean said, making his way to him, looking in his blue eyes as he sat on the bed. “I meant what I said last night. I'm not going anywhere,” he said. 

Then, he took the key to the handcuffs out of his pocket, holding it out out, setting it next to Cas on the bed. 

“Dean. . .” Cas started to protest, but Dean held up his hands. 

“I'm not forcing you to take them off,” said Dean. “You were right. I need to stop trying to tell you what to do.” 

Dean sighed, “But I can't, man. I can't be the one holding the key to your freedom anymore. I can't be the one holding you down. So I'm going to leave you the key. And when you're ready, take it. I'll wait as long as you need. Nobody is going to kick you out of here again. Ever. And when the cuffs come off you can leave. . . or you can stay. I hope you choose to stay, Cas, I really do. But you're not a prisoner here.” 

Dean's voice cracked, “I can't have you be a prisoner here.” 

With that, Dean stood, walking to the door, silence at his back while Cas stared down at the small piece of metal on the blanket. 

“I'll wait,” Dean said again, shutting the door behind him. 

* * * 

Sasha watched Dean's form as he walked down the hall. These people were. . . not what she'd expected. 

Sasha pulled out her phone, staring at the background image on her screen. The feeling was bittersweet as she looked at the picture of she and Jess at a local fair. Sasha was licking an ice cream cone, Jess to her right, planting a light peck to her cheek. Sasha bit her lip, drawing her knees in close to her chest. 

Pulling at her necklace, Sasha fiddled with the chain, her fingers brushing across the seashell pendant at the bottom of it. Jess had bought it for her that day, telling her that someday the two of them would make it to the ocean together since neither of them had ever been. Sasha knew it would never happen. It was a miracle that they'd even been able to spend their magical day at the fair together, and it had only been a few blocks from their apartment. But inside the strong persona of Jess's exterior, she'd always been a dreamer. 

Sasha clenched her palm around the seashell, crushing the metal into her skin with force, fighting back the tears. She couldn't cry. Not now. Not here. Not in the house of the man who'd killed Jess. 

Sasha swallowed deeply as she felt for the syringe she kept in her coat pocket. She'd been terrified when the mob had approached her. But, as careful as she'd been to hide her feelings for Jess, even from Jess herself, clearly she hadn't been careful enough. 

Head still spinning from the last few days, Sasha thought of her pimp, Caesar calling her into his office. Telling her about Jess strangely carefully with a kindness she'd never experienced from him before. Handing her tissues while he told her about Jess's killer. The man they'd come to know as Cas. 

At first Sasha argued. She'd heard Jess talk about Cas before. From what she knew, Jess and Cas were friends. 

But then he'd shown her the video of the man in the alley, breaking neck after neck with a cold look on his face. He'd fit Jess's description. And, when, finally, she'd come to the secure location he and his friends were hiding in, she'd mentioned Cas to them, hoping, praying she wouldn't be right. 

Sasha clutched the shell tighter, looking down at the blankets, confused by the way the people here seemed kind, and sounded truly sorry when they'd told her about Jess. But, even still, she could tell Dean was hiding something when he'd talked about Jess's death. Vague about who killed her. Vague about everything. 

She swallowed, turning off her phone again and peeked down the hallway. She didn't know how long they were planning on letting her stay here, so she needed to act fast. She had one job, and she planned to do it at the risk of her life. One job: kill the man who murdered Jess. 


	55. Sasha

Sasha walked down the hall, her bare feet padding against the floor. She'd taken her shoes off in an attempt to be quiet. Last night, after everyone had fallen asleep, she'd scoured the hallways of the east wing of this place with furrowed brows, using her phone to light her way. And, she'd acknowledged to herself what a strange place this home was she'd heard Dean call “the bunker.” 

_No wonder the mob needed someone on the inside,_ Sasha realized, as she wandered deeper and deeper into the underground metal-clad hallways, praying she wouldn't get lost. Still, door after door had only revealed an even stranger sense of curiosity as she dipped her head in and out of rooms with filing cabinets and outdated furniture. 

Then, there were the libraries. Almost every other room held books, lining the walls in dusty towers. Intrigued, she'd gone into one of the rooms last night, placing her phone next to one of the shelves, letting the light fall on the titles. At first she'd thought the books might be fantasy as she skimmed the titles that said shapeshifters and vampires, but then, upon closer examination, there were strange religious texts, too. But, the most disturbing were the titles that spoke of demons and the devil. Sasha inhaled sharply, starting to have strong suspicions she might not have known exactly what she was getting herself into with this group of people. On the surface, they seemed harmless enough, but still, she already knew of one beast they hid somewhere in this strange place, and she had to admit to herself with a shiver that cult leaders and serial killers were often charismatic, too. 

She'd tried not to think about the eerie emptiness of this strange place as she made her way back to the couch, impressed that she'd only made one wrong turn in the pitch black. Still, she hadn't found Cas, and, disappointed, she'd forced herself to get some sleep. 

But that was last night. This morning she'd made a quick decision and had followed Dean's shadowed form to the small door around the curve of the hallway. Had hid in the shadows as she'd listened to the blonde haired man knock. Had felt her heart start to beat faster when she heard a man's voice, deep and thick say “come in.” It hadn't been Sam's voice. _It's Cas,_ she thought, _it must be._

When the door shut, Sasha scurried close, throwing her ear against it in an attempt to hear their words. She frowned, realizing the sound was too muffled, then ran back to the shadows to wait Dean out. It didn't take long before she watched the blonde haired man shutting the door behind him with a look of dissatisfaction then he turned down the corridor. 

Sasha held her breath as Dean's form came closer and closer, hoping she would be secure in her dark corner. He was two feet away. Then one. Finally, Dean was close enough to have reached out and touched her. His steps were slow, and for a moment, Sasha thought Dean might have sensed her there. But, she found herself deeply grateful for the lack of windows when she finally watched Dean pass her by, face to the ground as if his thoughts were miles away and burdened. 

She let out a long held breath, reaching in her pocket for the syringe, wrapping her small hand around the skinny cylinder. And slowly, she placed a second hand on the cold metal of the door handle. Sasha felt her shoulders tense as she thought about what she was about to do. To kill another human being. That is, if he didn't kill her first. She'd have to be fast. Precise. And, even if she did manage to get the toxin into his bloodstream first, there was still a good chance this was a kamikaze mission. A very good chance that she would be the next one to die. 

Sasha paused, gathering courage and trying to press it down into her trembling fingers as she let go of the door handle long enough to pull the seashell pendant to her lips for a final kiss to it. Then, with a renewed determination, she turned the handle. 

_For Jess_ , she thought as she opened the door. 

And, when her eyes finally adjusted to the light, she saw him. The man from the video—Cas. His brown hair was tousled and there were bags under his eyes. He looked up at her, eyes wide in an expression of surprise. But he didn't look angry, or formidable. In fact, it took a moment for Sasha to reconcile the man in the video with the tired-looking human in front of her. Then, in an even more curious display, Sasha noticed that one of the man's wrists dipped under the weight of a heavy chain drilled deeply and securely into the floor beside the bed. 

“Who are you?” Cas asked, his voice calm, but small. 

Sasha blinked, frozen. This wasn't what she'd expected. Not at all. And, suddenly, she wasn't sure of how to act or what to do. Her hand was stilled inside her pocket, still wrapped firmly around the syringe, but not moving. Not attacking. 

“Sasha,” came a woman—Charlie's voice from behind her. 

Charlie walked up to the open door, realization finding her as Sasha continued to stare at Cas's chained up form through the door. 

“Oh god,” Charlie exclaimed, suddenly flustered. “what are you doing over here?” 

With effort, Sasha's hand loosened around the syringe and she turned to Charlie. 

“I was,” she stuttered, the effect accentuated by her emotional state and thick accent. “I was looking for the washroom.” 

Charlie nodded, sighing. She peeked her head into Cas's room. 

“Sorry, Cas,” she said. He gave her a small confused smile, and Charlie shut the door on the man. 

Charlie pulled on Sasha's arm lightly as if in an attempt to shake the girl from her stupor. 

This time it was Charlie's turn to sound frazzled as she carefully said “that isn't. . . it isn't what you think.” 

Sasha's eyes held Charlie's as the redhead's words faded away. And suddenly, Sasha realized she needed to pull herself together if she wasn't going to lose it all. Sasha willed her rapid heart beat to slow. She forced herself to smile sympathetically. 

And, even if it made her stomach hurt, she tried to sound genuine as she confessed: “I'm the last person to judge people for sex kinks.” 

Sasha glanced back at the door again. Despite what she might say, Sasha knew that whatever strange thing they had going on behind that door wasn't sexual. She swallowed, despite her lies, hoping Charlie would not be suspicious of her. 

Then, suddenly, Charlie's face lit up with a brief, small smile. Sasha had to admit, the woman's smile was pretty. It reminded her of the way that Jess's smiles could melt away the dirty walls and cigarette burns in the carpet of their apartment. She had been a lighthouse in the storm. Suddenly, Sasha's chest hurt. 

She'd missed her chance to kill the one person who had taken that away from her. Had taken away the woman she loved. 

“Bathroom's this way,” Charlie said kindly, bringing Sasha back. The red haired woman led the way down the hall and Sasha walked inside, closing the door behind her. She let her back fall to the flat of it, tears already starting to stream down her face as her breathing sped up. 

She turned, placing her hands on either side of the sink, bracing herself as she stared deep into her reflection, the doubt in her expression staring back at her. 

“I can do this,” she whispered to her mirror self on repeat as her voice became more and more shredded with effort while her bottom lip trembled. “I can do this. I can do this.” 

It took her a long time before she finally calmed herself down, wiping away the tears from her cheeks and letting her fingers unwind from the curve of the counter, letting the blood rush back into her now-white knuckles. 

_I can do this._


	56. Light and Keys

Cas rolled the key over in his hand. The surface that had once been cold had warmed to his fingers like taffy, melting into the seams and cracks of his palm. It wasn't heavy, but somehow the weight of the key felt taxing. 

_Dean's going to make you better,_ Cas thought to himself as he clenched his hand tighter until the metal bit into his skin. 

He looked back and forth between the lock and his key, feeling the wash of anxiety that rained down on him. His fingers were white with the pressure, but Cas thought that maybe they'd been pale long before that—his body's way of expressing the organic need for Cas to extricate himself from the situation. To pretend that he wasn't skin, bone and organ now and that his wings and true form were more than just the penciled outline of his former self. 

His lips felt dry, too. Chapped from where he'd pursed them shut, hoping to dissolve the words he didn't want to say. Words attached to emotions he didn't understand. Like hate. Like shame. 

Cas's eyes closed as he concentrated on the way the key pushed into the scratches he'd already dug into the tender flesh of his palm. And he felt even more confused by the way the burning sting of it acted like an outlet for the way his brain tried to short circuit all the pain into something tangible. It felt deceivingly useful to feel how the physical pain wrapped around him in a familiar way, in a way he could connect with. As an angel, he was made to take the brunt of physical brutality. Even his graceless vessel remembered that. 

So, he scratched 'till he bled, hiding his hands under the covers when Dean came in if he remembered to. 

Dean. Cas looked at his ashy fingers, realizing that he felt the need to hurt himself the most after Dean's visits. To turn Dean's pitying looks, and apologies into something that made sense. The only thing that made sense; Red. Blood. Scratches. Pain. 

Because he wasn't ready to face the unfamiliar ball of shame burning in his throat. Wasn't prepared to think about the fact that Dean knew how Cas had let himself be treated. How far he'd fallen from the man he'd known so long ago. And Cas wasn't prepared to think about all the people he'd hurt. Wasn't prepared to think about how a part of him had wanted it. Had liked it. He'd gotten one of his only friends killed. And he'd tried to kill Dean. 

Looking in the mirror lately felt like looking into the eyes of a stranger, because he wasn't sure about the person he'd become. How could he hope to revert to the person he'd once been? And Cas realized, that it was the hope that was the most painful. Because Dean looked at him with hope. Like he truly believed that somewhere inside of Cas's skin was the same man who'd fought with him and alongside him. The man who could make Dean smile when he wasn't trying. The man who stood too close to Dean because he secretly felt like the world was better near him. The man who could fight with them. Who could protect him and the people he loved. Someone he could care for. 

Cas's hand opened just enough for him to see the way the key was smudged in blood. Even with all of his flaws, that was a man that even Cas had liked. But that version of Cas was gone. And he couldn't bear the way that Dean kept looking for him in the wreckage. Hoping something good and strong had made it through. But Cas knew. Knew the moment he'd thrown up on the floor of Dean's bedroom that that person was gone. And soon, Dean would realize it, too. 

_Maybe he already has,_ Cas thought, looking down at the key. And Cas wondered then if his need to keep himself locked up was entirely for the reasons he said it was. True, he'd been afraid he'd hurt someone at first. But then, slowly, the feeling had changed to one of desperation. That maybe, if he kept himself locked up here, he could become a permanent fixture of the place, even if he didn't deserve it. 

Dean kept saying this was his home. But Cas knew better. Because soon Dean would understand. He would know what Cas did. That everything that had happened had been Cas's own fault. That he'd deserved it. All of it. 

Dean thought he was keeping Cas as a prisoner, but Cas knew the truth. The chains were to, selfishly, keep Dean there as long as he could. Even if he yelled and pushed him away, the truth was that the thought of leaving Dean made him feel like he couldn't breathe. And yet, being near him was almost equally as painful, his green eyes scanning the sins that Cas felt convinced were branded into his skin. 

_'I hope you choose to stay'_ Dean had said. And yet, here Cas was, holding the key. 

He stared at it for a long moment, his eyes starting to sting from the lack of blinking, then he slotted the key inside the hole, shuddering at the clink of metal against metal. The lock clicked, freeing his bruised wrist, the cold air hitting the exposed skin. And, suddenly, the weight of the chain pulled as the links slithered like a snake to the floor with a loud, echoing thump. 

It took ten long breaths before Cas could bring himself to shuck the covers from his legs and let them fall to the side of the bed. And then, slowly, he stood. He made his way to the door on unsteady legs, every movement weighty and pointed. And, he felt like he was floating as he made his way through the dim corridors, bare feet padding against the cold tiles. Each step was timid as he let his hand run alongside the wall as if it were for support. 

The kitchen light burned his eyes as he slowly turned the final corner. He blinked against the assault, squinting and framing his eyes against the light as the figures came into view. Where a second ago there had been the jumbled sound of people talking, the kitchen had fallen silent. Sam and Charlie stared up at him, a surprised expression on their faces, their movements frozen. And then, there was Dean. The man who looked at him with a warm smile, his face exuding light. Exuding hope. 


	57. Questions

Dean stood immediately, elbowing Sam to scoot down on the bench to make more room for Cas. And, in a moment, Dean was close to him, his eyes shining with relief. 

“Cas,” he said with a smile. “You're up.” 

Not knowing what else to say, Cas nodded, slowly making his way to the table and sitting down where Dean indicated. 

“Hey, Cas,” came Sam's voice, Charlie's similar greeting following. 

Cas nodded, again. “Hello everyone,” he said. It was strange, and formal, especially with the way his shoulder blades locked rigidly into place, his fingers laced in his lap under the table. 

He could hear a drip in the sink, a few feet away, scattering his attentions with each droplet's microscopic explosion. He couldn't see it, but he could picture in his mind the way the water burst and scattered every time it fell and hit the porcelain. 

His fingers tightened in response like glue as if to keep him from shattering, too. 

“How are you feeling, buddy?” Dean whispered to him. It was quiet as if it were meant as a secret, but the room was achingly mute, and Cas knew that Charlie and Sam could hear it anyway. Cas felt his face heat up as his chin dropped a bit. 

“Fine,” he said, though it caught in his throat and he coughed. “Better,” he said, a little more clearly, and yet, even to his ears it lacked conviction. 

But Sam smiled at him anyway, like he'd said the right thing. And everyone seemed to start to relax a little. Charlie and Sam started talking to each other while Dean turned to Cas. 

Cas finally looked at Dean, seeing the way that, even when he wasn't smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkled up, making him look freer than he'd seen him in weeks. It hurt to watch. Because it had always been the thing he admired in Dean. Dean challenged logic and rules, demons and gods. Angels. Dean had always challenged Cas in dangerous ways, because, after all, wasn't hope the most dangerous of motives, anyway? Cas looked at Dean's green stare, seeing how violently he hoped. He felt like atlas when he saw it, feeling ashamed of the way he wished he could turn away from it before it crushed them both. 

“So, Cas, I was thinking that maybe. . .” Cas's eyes squinted as he noticed the way Dean rubbed his palms nervously on his thighs. He didn't comment, though, and Dean continued: “maybe now that you're out, we could get outside of the bunker for a bit. If you're feeling up for it. We could start small, maybe a walk, or. . .” he trailed off, waiting to see Cas's response. 

It was quiet when Sam tentatively stepped in, “Dean,” he said in warning, “Cas just got out of his room, he probably needs a minute, don't you think?” 

Cas coughed, cutting Sam off and both men fell silent. 

“I'm up for it,” he said, surprised at the conviction in his voice, especially considering what he planned on saying next: “Not a walk, though,” he said. “Dean, I think. . .” his voice wavered. Maybe he wasn't as confident as he thought. “Dean, I need a ride.” 

Dean furrowed his eyebrows in confusion for a moment before Cas looked at him knowingly. It took a moment, but then realization fell on Dean's face. He licked his lips, nodding. 

“Of course,” he said, then leaned in closer. “Do you. . . are you sure?” 

Cas's hands were tight under the table, the pressure of skin on skin biting into his cuts. He used the clarity to ground him. 

“I'm ready,” he said. 

Dean nodded. “Alright, Cas,” he said. “We can head out in an hour.” 

* * * 

To say the ride was long wouldn't give it justice. Dean glanced at the way Cas sunk into the corner of the seat, dipping low as if to avoid the sun. And Dean couldn't help but think that the last time they'd been in the car, Cas had been unconscious in the back seat. 

Their destination was a little over a half hour away, and Dean was surprised at the way the minutes stretched out in length, despite the way his fingers curved around the worn leather of the steering wheel, running along the familiar scratches on the back in instinct. 

In fact, there was nothing more familiar than the tiny whoosh of the wind between the loose space in the right window, or the small vibrations of the dash when they drove over sixty miles an hour. 

Cas sat quietly in the seat next to him, eyes focused on the way the road collapsed beneath the car in a rush of momentum. His jaw was starting to shadow with stubble, and Dean could see how his hair burst from his head in messy, spiked patterns, despite the fact he'd seen Cas try to tame it in the reflection of the car. Even with everything that Cas had been through, Dean was amazed at Cas's soft and innocent expression, even when his hands were tightened subtly against the edge of his seat. 

Dean swallowed, trying, unsuccessfully, to keep his eyes from wandering down the planes of Cas's chest and the way his stomach dipped as he leaned forward, Dean's shirt hugging against his belly button. 

But Dean forced himself to look away, fingers flexing against the steering wheel as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. _Do you want to know how many men, Dean?_ Cas's voice echoed in his head in memory. 

Dean was saved from dissecting that thought as the car finally pulled into the parking lot and he turned the engine off with a jolt. He waited for Cas to make the first move, only opening his own door when he heard the click and creak of Cas's first. They walked to the entry of the building, side by side, Dean doing his best to ignore the way their hands bumped when he moved out of the way of a passerby. 

Then, the door. Dean grabbed the handle, and with one last glance at Cas, waited for the ok. Cas nodded, and they entered together. 

Suddenly, Dean's ears were inundated with the course sounds of beeping machines and loud voices in the lobby. He pretended not to notice when Cas winced against the assault. 

“I'll check us in,” he said, heading to the receptionist as he watched Cas find a seat in the waiting room from the corner of his eye. 

He propped his hands on the cold formica of the counter, pulling out an ID and insurance card and slid them forward. 

The young, blonde receptionist grabbed it with a smile, taking Cas's fake information down quickly and efficiently for which Dean was grateful. And, shortly he was back by Cas's side. Cas was clutching his stomach, leaned forward, his toes digging into the carpet making small impressions. Dean grabbed a magazine, thrusting it in front of Cas. 

“National Geographic?” Cas questioned as he glanced down at Dean's offering. 

“Yeah,” Dean shrugged, “I thought you could use a distraction.” 

Cas grabbed it from Dean, leafing through it half-heartedly, and Dean found himself doing the same, his eyes scanning over various pictures, his brain barely acknowledging them in earnest. In fact, he felt almost as nervous Cas looked as his eyes glanced at the empty seats when name after name was called back into the doctor's office. 

Then, finally: “Mr. Callihan” 

Dean stood, immediately and awkwardly fast. When Cas didn't respond right away, he gave him a knowing look. Cas's eyes widened in understanding as he stood, as well. 

“Yes,” Cas said, taking a small step forward. “I'm Mr. Callihan.” 

The woman smiled, nodding as she gestured toward the back door, Cas trailing her. 

Without thinking, Dean took a step forward, before getting a strange look from the nurse. 

“Right,” Dean said, stopping. He was about to sit back down when he looked back at Cas, his eyes questioning. Cas looked at the door, then back at Dean. 

“Can he come?” he asked the nurse, his voice quiet. 

She gave them both a strange look, then shrugged, continuing to lead the way to the exam room. 

Dean stared at Cas's back as the nurse took his weight, Dean trying to keep his face neutral when he realized just how much mass Cas had lost in the last ten months, even if he didn't show it. Then, they were being led into the exam room, the nurse handing Cas an exam gown with instructions to change before she shut them both in the room. 

Dean's eyes widened when he'd realized her assumption. He looked at Cas, waiting for any kind of reaction, but he realized, when he took Cas's features in, how little he was absorbing his surroundings right now. Cas's eyes looked ashen, his chest still, holding his breath. 

“I'll wait outside,” Dean said, bringing Cas's attention back to the present. 

Cas's head jolted a tiny bit as if he'd just realized Dean were still in the room, and he nodded, his eyes not following Dean as he left. 

The click was loud and heavy behind him as Dean closed the door. He let his back fall against the wood, closing his eyes tightly against the dizzying affect of the florescent lights in the hallway. And he felt the way the wood pressed against his shirt, reminding him of the night back at Cas's apartment. He'd never heard Cas cry before that night. 

_I should have gone to him,_ Dean thought, his hands shaking at the memory. And Dean wondered if Cas were afraid, now. If he felt caged inside the small room, asked to strip down, Dean on the other side of the door. 

Dean's hands were in fists as he started to notice it had been awhile. Hesitantly, he knocked. 

“Cas?” he asked, tentatively. 

“I'm done.” 

Dean opened the door, eyes glancing first to the neatly folded up pile of clothes on the chair. Then, he glanced at Cas, sitting in the hospital gown, his feet dangling from the exam table like a kid's, not touching the floor. 

Cas bit his lip as Dean sat down in the extra chair. He could see Cas's anxiety in earnest now that he was displayed to the room on the table. Dean's hand twitched in reflex when he almost reached out, but thought better of it when he thought of Cas's reaction the other night, realizing it might add to Cas's distress instead of comforting him. 

“Cas,” he said, his voice echoing in the tiny room. “I'm with you.” 

But, before Cas could respond, the door opened, and the doctor walked in, clipboard in hand. His hair was gray-tipped and he wore black glasses. 

“Mr. Callihan, my name is doctor Parrish” he said, shutting the door behind them and pulling up the doctor's chair. If the doctor looked surprised to see another man in the room, he didn't show it. 

He glanced down at his chart, then back up at Cas, his features clinical. It made Dean uncomfortable, and he couldn't help but wonder what it might be doing to Cas. But Cas's face was unreadable. 

“I see that you're here for an STD panel today,” he said, then glanced at Dean. “I assume this is your partner, then?” 

Dean's eyes widened immediately and he coughed. “Uh. . .” Dean sputtered, “I'm a. . .” 

“He's a friend,” Cas said plainly, and Dean couldn't help but be grateful for Cas's direct demeanor. 

The doctor licked his chapped lips, nodding. 

“Alright,” he said, addressing Cas now. “Well, I feel I should let you know, these type of examinations can be a bit personal in nature. I attempt to be very thorough with my patients in an effort to better understand their needs.” 

Cas swallowed and glanced at Dean, then chewed at his lip again. “I want him here,” he said quietly. 

Dean smiled tightly in reassurance. “If you need me to go, just say the word.” 

The doctor nodded in consent, grabbing a pen from his lab coat and flipping his papers over his clipboard to reveal a new sheet. 

“Let's get started then, shall we? I'm going to ask you a series of questions that help me determine what panels might be needed and, after, we will proceed to the actual testing portion of the exam.” 

“Ok” Cas said. 

The Doctor wrote something in the margin of his paper then looked up: 

“Are you sexually active?” 

The doctor's question was, of course, professional. Distant and clinical. And, even though Dean knew deep down that it would be clinical, for some reason it still surprised him. 

“Yes,” Cas said candidly, and Dean felt his heart begin to beat faster in his chest. He knew that. Of course he did. He licked his lips, training his face into a neutral stance. 

“Have you engaged in anal sex in the last six months?” Doctor Parrish continued. Dean rubbed at the back of his neck, his knees bouncing as he tried to find a place in the room to look. 

Cas wasn't looking at Dean or the doctor, instead his eyes were trained to one of the tiles on the floor, the wax paper making small crinkling sounds as he gripped it tighter. 

“Yes,” he said quietly. 

The doctor nodded as he leaned back further in his chair. 

“Do you use protection every time?” the doctor asked. 

“Yes,” Cas replied. And Dean could tell the way his voice got smaller with every answer. “Condoms.” The Doctor's head dipped as he wrote, the sound of his pen scratching on the paper sounding raw in Dean's ears. 

“That's good,” the doctor praised. “And, are you in a monogamous relationship?” 

It was all Dean could do to stare at Cas's flexed toes as they dipped to the cold floor. 

“No,” Cas exhaled. 

Dean stared at his own hands fisted against the armrest, trying to decide if he should say something. Trying to decide if he should leave. Suddenly, he wondered what he was thinking, coming inside here. This was something for a boyfriend or girlfriend, husband or wife. He wasn't any of those things to Cas. 

He shifted, opening his mouth to speak, to suggest he leave, but the doctor cut him off: 

“Have you had sexual intercourse with more than one person in the last year?” he asked. 

Cas shut his eyes. Dean's heart was beating in his chest as he eyed the doctor. Dean felt the way his muscles contracted in his back, wondering if he was helping or hurting Cas by being here. He desperately wanted to ask him. To find out what he needed right now, because as much as he wanted to run from this, he meant the promise he made to himself outside the door. He would stay for as long as Cas needed him. And, he couldn't help but feel protective as he looked at the way that Cas's back arched in an attempt to make himself smaller. 

_You can do this, Cas,_ he thought, wishing Cas could still hear his prayers. Wishing that every question the doctor asked didn't bring a clearer picture of Cas's life for the last ten months into clarity for Dean. 

“Yes,” Cas whispered finally. 

“How many different partners would you say that you've had in the past year?” the doctor asked calmly. 

Dean's heart stopped. His hands twitched, his mouth dry. Cas was silent. 

“I should go,” Dean said, starting to stand. If Cas needed an out, this was it. 

But Cas looked at Dean acknowledging him for the first time since the questions started. Cas wasn't crying but his pupils looked glossy anyway, as if waiting for him to blink to let something fall. Cas swallowed. 

“Over a hundred,” he whispered his eyes still on Dean, shame creased into his expression. And Dean could tell from Cas's face, he was probably rounding down. 

Dean fell back into the chair. His mouth fell open slightly as he exhaled a shaky breath. His legs wobbled under him, even though no weight bore down on them. He wanted to be supportive, to hide the way his heart pounded in his ears, his head caught in a moment of shock and denial. With everything he had, he wished he could control the pain that crossed his face at those three small words. But when Cas looked away, blinking back the last of the unshed tears, Dean knew he'd failed. 

Cas wouldn't look at him, so as Dean tried to calm himself down, he glanced at the doctor. The man had quit writing at this point, his own clinical facade cracked open into a very human display of surprise. After a moment, Dr. Parrish scooted his chair forward an inch, seemingly taking in Cas's uncomfortable stance. The man's face melted into something more careful as he glanced down at Cas's hands. The doctor must have noticed something, because he set the clipboard to the side before reaching forward to gesture at them in the now-silent-room. 

“May I?” he asked, doctor's voice gentle, almost as if he were a different person. 

Cas swallowed, giving him a small nod as he forced his hands to unclench, letting go of the torn and smashed paper between his palms. 

The doctor reached out tentatively, flipping Cas's hands over to view them. Cas's eyes fell shut again as if he couldn't stand to see the doctor's reaction. 

Dean watched, though, as the doctor pursed his lips, blinking. He reached over to his cabinet, quietly gathering supplies and cleaning out the wounds, then putting ointment on them, Cas's eyes still closed. 

Finally, the doctor was done. He cleared his throat, straightening his lab coat, standing up. 

“Alright,” the doctor said, feebly attempting to adopt the clinical stance he'd held before. And then Cas looked up at the doctor with his blue, wide eyes his expression vulnerable as he was laid bare on the exam table. 

The doctor swallowed. 

“I have. . .” he stuttered, “I have some supplies to grab and I'll be back momentarily to start up the tests,” he said. He walked toward the door, opening it, and, as he left, he shot Dean a pointed glance. 

Dean walked in front of Cas after the door shut, wincing at the way the his chin dipped to his chest. He couldn't even look at Dean. 

He was standing too close, Dean knew this, but he couldn't help but slot himself slightly in-between Cas's dangling feet, Dean's eyes on his chest. 

“I'm not an angel anymore,” Cas whispered. 

He shouldn't have done it, Dean knew that. But, he could still feel the strangling silence in the room. Could still see Cas's tear-wet eyes when he'd told him the truth. Could still see the phantom images of man after man fucking his beautiful Cas. Hurting him. 

And, he couldn't stop himself from letting his head fall down until it rested on Cas's bowed one, their short hairs tangling against one another's. 

He closed his eyes and held his breath, knowing that at any moment the doctor could walk in. 

Then, the words tumbled out of his mouth, almost with a will of their own: 

“I'm so sorry,” Dean exhaled. 


	58. Be there

Cas still felt cold when he put Dean's clothes slowly back on. His feet flinched at the icy feeling of the tile before he donned his socks. His chest rippled with goosebumps as he tugged at the shirt. His hands felt stiff and cold as the teeth of the zipper bit into his skin as he put on his jeans. 

Once he was finally dressed, he looked around the room, his mind marveling at the idea that he'd ever find himself here. Inside a doctor's office where the evidence of sickness was only masked by the sharp, offending smell of chemicals. It reminded him of the way the world had smelled when he'd first woken up from his “coma.” Stark, cold, with memories of what he'd done assaulting him with speed and vengeance. 

Cas thought of Dean who was sitting in the waiting room and had been since the doctor had started the tests. He could still feel Dean's head, heavy against the peak of his own, the weight and heat of him solid and real. Cas's teeth clenched down at the memory, trying to hold on to something to ground him, because as solid as Dean had felt against him at that moment, Cas could see his world dissolving and unraveling around him in fast spinning circles. 

_I'm sorry, Cas._ Those words. Again. _Where was I? I'm sorry. You belong here._

And Cas realized, Dean had been trying to tell him. Had been trying to talk to him for weeks now. Cas pushed his palms deep against the sockets of his eyes, attempting to breathe, wishing the room weren't so cold and empty. Wishing the pressure of Dean's head against him wasn't still there, aching in his temples. Wishing he couldn't feel the sticky ointment and the feel of the doctors warm hands against his palms. 

He looked around the room that had become so vulnerable for him. He'd made a decision here. To let Dean see him. To self destruct in the only way he knew how. To show Dean who exactly it was he was putting so much misplaced faith in. 

Cas had expected loathing. He'd expected disappointment. He'd expected to push Dean too far. In fact, it's what he'd wanted. Because it was getting too hard—waiting for the inevitable destruction of these quiet moments where Dean sought to satisfy his guilt. Sought to take care of Cas like a wounded bird. It would only be matter of time before Dean realized he couldn't fix him. Right? 

That look had said it all when Dean collapsed into the chair after Cas's confession. It had been the moment of truth, and Cas had breathed it in like brutal relief, because Dean would push him away again, but this time, Cas could have some control. He would know it was coming and could relieve the pressure of waiting. Could relieve the temptation to believe Dean's promises if he listened to them for too long. 

He'd done it for control. To face the constant pressure of the inevitable day he'd find himself again alone with only memories of Dean's warmth to mock him. 

What he hadn't expected was the way his mouth had gone dry, his hands white with pressure. He hadn't expected to hope that Dean might still stay, even with Cas practically naked and broken on the table. 

Cas hadn't expected his own feeble hope. He hadn't expected the fear. 

But, mostly, he hadn't expected Dean. 

* * * 

Dean kicked against the tiles in the waiting room. Cas had been in there longer than probably necessary. And, even if Dean understood, he felt uncomfortable with the unknown. The way that Cas had become a constancy of unknown for him. 

“Mr. Rieker?” came a deep voice. Dean looked up at Dr. Parrish, bringing himself back to the moment. 

“Yes,” Dean answered quickly. Then, when he saw the doctor's concerned face: “Is it. . . have you found something?” 

Dr. Parrish shook his head, “No, we won't have results for at least a week,” he said. “But, I was hoping I could have a word with you.” 

The doctor gestured to an empty hallway with a hand and Dean followed. When they were alone, the doctor let out a careful breath, rubbing a finger along the bridge of his nose. 

“I've been a doctor for a long time,” he said carefully “and I would be lying if I said that what I saw with your. . . friend, doesn't concern me.” 

Dean nodded, swallowing. Of course it did. It would concern anyone. Suddenly, Dean was five, looking down at the carpet of a motel room, his father's voice scolding him because Sammy fell and got hurt. Because he didn't watch him. Because he didn't take care of him. 

Dean pursed his lips, trying to keep a neutral face, but finding himself failing. Helpless in front of this stranger, who knew to pause at the word “friend,” even if Dean himself didn't even know what that meant. 

When Dean didn't speak, the doctor continued. 

“I'm going to speak with you candidly,” he said. “Is that alright?” 

Dean nodded, dumbly. 

“Richard—“ 

“Cas,” Dean breathed. “He goes by Cas.” 

The doctor nodded a little suspiciously, but continued anyway. 

“Cas,” he said, “is displaying some clear symptoms of sexual trauma and abuse.” 

“Yeah,” Dean whispered, clearing his throat, stuffing his hands inside his pockets. “He's. . . he's been through a lot.” 

He braved a look at the doctor, who was staring back, brows drawn, pursing his lips. 

“Look,” the doctor said, “I've always tried to draw clear boundaries between myself and my patients. I find it's a healthier practice for both of us if I don't get overly involved, but. . .” 

Dean blinked, thinking he understood where the doctor was taking this. 

“But it's hard not to care about someone like Cas, even if you've just met him,” Dean said. 

The doctor paused, then pulled a card out of his pocket. 

“I did three years in psychiatric residency,” he said. “I decided to pursue a family medical practice, but I. . . have some experience in this field. If either of you decides you need someone to talk to.” 

Dean looked down at the card, blinking against the thick font. 

“Thanks,” he said, a little shocked, pocketing the card. Then, more quietly: “Any advice, Doc?” 

The doctor looked at him sympathetically. “Be there.” 


	59. Innocence

Sasha looked down at the pot on the stove, mesmerized with the slow bubbles bursting at the surface of the stew. 

“Keep stirring, girl,” came Charlie's voice from behind. 

Sasha acquiesced quickly, letting the creamy mixture part between the slots of the wooden spoon. 

While Charlie started chopping onions, the sound of the knife hit against the cutting board over and over again, rough and loud, putting Sasha on edge. Chinking away at her. 

And she began to drown in the pot, watching the bubbles eat themselves in lazy bursts as if too tired to fight against the heat that consumed them. Sasha thought she could relate. For every stir, she felt herself thin with the heat. Become something smaller and something less. 

“Tell me about her.” 

The cutting had stopped, and Charlie was near now. 

Sasha swallowed. 

“Bright,” she whispered, not looking up. Her stirring slowed, the spoon moving in useless figure eight patterns. Charlie reached over and turned the heat down. 

Sasha looked up at the other woman, her face so genuine. So concerned. It wasn't supposed to be like this. To feel like this. And, Sasha wished that the other woman's warm hand that suddenly made her way to her back didn't feel comforting. She wished she could find it in herself to put up a fight when Charlie led her to the table where they sat down next to each other. 

“It's never easy to lose people you care about,” said Charlie. 

Sasha curled her toes under her chair, rounding her shoulders, making herself smaller: 

“I don't have many memories of my mother,” she said. “We were always very poor. My father was never there, and my mother. . . she, tried. Until she was unable to anymore. I needed to find a way to take care of myself. To keep myself alive.” 

She braved a look at Charlie, hoping that she wouldn't need to say more for the other girl to understand. She could tell the redhead did. Sasha swallowed. 

“She used to say: “innocence dies suddenly. Like cracked, bursting glass.”” 

Sasha felt herself clutching at her seashell, holding it. Charlie stayed silent. 

“Life broke mine a long time ago,” she said. “But Jess—she challenged it. Making me believe that somehow those pieces could be glued back together.” 

The confession came out angry, and Sasha knew that some part of her was. Angry at the girl who made her believe that things could be better. Angry at the fierce optimist she'd come to know. Come to love. 

“How long were you in love with her?” Charlie asked. And, suddenly, her hand was on top of Sasha's in a comforting gesture. The blonde woman stared at it for a moment, surprised, but didn't move. She didn't answer the question. 

Instead, Sasha closed her eyes, picturing Cas's face. The man who Jess had talked about with such admiration. The man who'd betrayed her and had taken everything. 

She looked at Charlie's kind expression, thinking that the woman who held her hand surely didn't know. Couldn't know what her friend was capable of. She hadn't seen the vacant look in his eyes on the screen of the phone as he killed. There was part of Sasha that was terrified of the monster she would let loose inside her by killing another person. But, part of her knew she'd lost any light inside her the moment Jess had died, anyway. 

Whatever hesitation she had was starting to fade away. Jess was gone. She would never be able to bring her back. But, she could kill the man who did it. 

Sasha swallowed, pulling her hand away from Charlie's. 

“Cas,” she said. 

Charlie's face immediately tensed. That they were all so protective of him was so strange to Sasha, but she continued. 

“I know he's recovering. . .” the blonde trailed off. “I just think he could help me. He knew her. Maybe he could help me understand.” 

Charlie debated it for a long moment and Sasha started to think that the answer would be “no.” But then, the redhead nodded slowly. 

“Alright,” she said. “I'll see what I can do.” 

* * * 

“No,” Dean said from the driver's seat into his phone. Cas didn't posses his angel ears anymore, but he didn't need to hear the conversation to know Dean was getting upset. “Charlie, tell her no.” 

Dean swerved around a piece of flattened roadkill, swearing. Then, his voice got quieter as if Cas might not still be able to hear him from the passenger's seat. “What the hell is she doing there still, anyway?” he asked. 

“Well, tell her she can go talk to someone else who knew her,” he said. 

Cas's squinted his eyes, tilting his head as he processed the information. 

Then: “I want to talk to her.” 

Dean pulled the phone away from his ear letting it drop to the steering wheel. Cas could hear the buzz of Charlie's voice still coming from the phone. 

“Cas,” Dean said. “Listen. You do not have to do this, man. You don't owe her anything.” 

Cas didn't answer. Instead, he held his hand out for the phone. Reluctantly, Dean passed it over. 

Cas put the phone up to his ear. He tried not to look at Dean, instead, opting to look out the window as he spoke: 

“I'll do it.” 


	60. Firsts

For all the progress he'd made with Dean, Cas couldn't help but feel he'd pushed them a step backwards as he looked at his face. They were quiet on the way back to the bunker, Dean gripping the steering wheel with two fists, eyes forward and jaw tight. 

Cas looked away. Dean didn't understand. How could he? For every dark and brutal thing that had washed over Dean, he still remained the righteous man. Even his bad decisions had a way of belonging to the category of “right reasons.” Cas had been like that, once, too. 

The rain fell as they drove, flooding the gutters and tempting to lift them from the road. Cas felt that way, in a sense. He was on the road to self destruction; Dean, the force of water beneath desperately pushing upwards, attempting to derail him. As well meaning as Deanwas, Cas couldn't help but be terrified to let go, afraid it would pummel them both from the path with equally as reckless a force. 

Cas became aware of the cramped space inside the car, boxing them in, the windows fogged and stifling. Cas kicked off his shoes and hugged his knees to his chest, his sock-clad feet stuffed up on the seat with him. 

“You're mad,” Cas said. 

Dean glanced at Cas as if he'd been caught, letting his hands loosen on the wheel. 

“Not mad,” Dean replied. 

Cas licked his lips and looked at him. “You think it's unwise for me to talk to her, though.” 

Dean shook his head. His answer came belated. “No,” he said, then paused again. “I just want you to feel safe.” 

_Safe._ Cas balked at the word like an alien force. Not ever had his safety been a priority. Not ever had it been Dean's. Cas had once wondered if there was anyone out there that could more clearly understand him, especially for a human. He and Dean shared a parallel legacy of sacrifice and loyalty; duty and pain. A legacy of absent fathers and endless, crushing responsibility. How then, could they be anything more than weighted instruments used and used again to balance the scales? And yet, there was a certainty in that life. Grandiose causes that gave purpose and identity. Predictable notions of right and wrong. A bond of goals that fused them together. 

Life as a human had been nothing like that. 

Cas found himself staring at Dean, mesmerized by the intensity and genuity of his expression. Falling from the sky had broken Cas in ways he never could have anticipated. He'd changed so much he barely recognized himself anymore. That fact was cemented with certainty for him. But, could it be possible that Dean had changed, too? Cas thought back to the weeks since Dean had found him, trying to peer and analyze through the thick fog of emotion that shaded his experience. That had made it impossible for him to see. 

“You're different than I remembered,” Cas finally said, eyes still locked on Dean. 

Dean glanced back, brows furrowed. 

“Different?” Dean asked. 

Cas nodded. “Yes,” he said, squinting. Analyzing. But he didn't elaborate. 

Dean looked confused, but didn't push when Cas remained quiet. 

“I'm different too,” Cas said, finally allowing his gaze to drift back to the window, his voice fading. 

He talked to the window, peering through the drizzles of rain worming down the glass pane: “When I fell,” he said, “I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't understand that humans felt—differently about things. I didn't understand that I wasn't just physically vulnerable. I was used to power. And down here, it all seemed so small and unimportant. I didn't realize that the things that used to be simple, wouldn't be anymore.” 

Cas paused, then: “I was wrong.” 

Dean's mouth had fallen slightly open as Cas talked. He could see it from the corner of his eye. And he knew why; he might have been physically in Dean's vicinity, but until this moment, he wasn't sure he'd been anywhere near to him. It was uncomfortable, and raw, and Cas couldn't even bring himself to look at Dean as he pulled his knees tighter to his chest, sitting like an overgrown child. But he was here. Cracked shell and open, even if it was just the tiniest bit. 

“You didn't think it would affect you. . .” Dean whispered in understanding. 

Cas bit his lip. He pinched at the jean fabric with his hands, holding tight to his calves for support. His stomach twisted with the anxious notion of being seen. Really seen. 

“I knew I was human,” Cas finally said, “but I don't think I really _knew it_ until it was too late.” 

It was quiet after that, as if Dean were letting the idea float between the space between them and find him. Taking a moment to digest. But Cas couldn't be sure. Because he still couldn't look at him. 

Then, after a weighted paused, Dean spoke: “Jess. . .” he started, then stopped. 

Cas blinked against the water building in his eyes, cursing the fact that he'd opened up. Because sitting so open had left him susceptible to the heavy emotions that had been tempting to get out since he came back. 

“I had a lot of firsts as a human. A lot of bad ones,” Cas said, trying and failing to keep his voice steady. “She was one of the good ones.” 

Dean inhaled briefly. It was small, but Cas noticed it, quickly gleaning his misunderstanding. 

“Not that kind of first, Dean,” he said, reaching a finger up to trace into the fog of the glass. He let his hand fall, then whispered again to the window: 

“Jess was my first friend.” 


	61. Peach Trees

Dean had driven in the rain hundreds of times. He'd sped along glossy highways, inundated with water, coaxing baby expertly through the thick of storms. Dean felt sure his body was so attuned to baby by now that he could drive her through a hurricane with little care. And yet, Dean found himself crawling against the current of the light drizzle that fell on the car now.

He looked at the way the clouds washed the peach trees that lined the road, like spilled ink, darkening what was once bright pink. Everything heavy and wet.

When the road wasn't slick beneath his tires, it was thick and gritty, wet sediment pulling down on the car like paste, begging them not to move forward. Begging them to stop. 

Chatter. It was all loud and demanding; the wind, the plink of the rain, the splash of the tires, the growl of the engine. Everything crying to be heard through screams and whispers. Everything except Cas—the quiet small ball curled up in the passenger's seat, casting shadows against the console. 

Dean fixed his eyes on the puddles and the slosh. Thunder cracked and echoed muted, and a second later, Dean could see another spark of lightening in the distance. Dean blinked tight, opening his eyes to try and clear the image.

Some people found lightening fascinating. Sam did. Once, when they were younger, Sam had found a hill free of trees next to the motel during a storm. He'd only been seven at the time, dragging Dean up the hill, practically yanking the older brother's arm from his socket, both of them drenched with the rain. 

At the top, Dean had piled Sam's little folded up body close to his in his lap, watching the lightening together like a cartoon, the streaks piercing the sky and Sam shaking just a little bit against Dean's chest with the resulting thunder. 

It was probably dangerous, but they were both young, and Dean still remembered the encompassing feeling of smallness that overtook him. That at any moment they could be pierced in two by the brutal sky. But he also remembered how the light had been beautiful, too. . . piercing him in a different way. In a way that made him feel wonder in his chest. And part of him had known then that violence could be magical, too. The violence of nature. The violence of hunting. The violence of their lives. 

Violence that was an old friend. For Sam. For Cas. For Dean. In life. In Hell.

Dean blinked again, hoping to wipe away the red of the pit. Trying not to remember the way the lightening had pierced him then. Trying not to remember how it twisted, dark and disquieting now. 

If Dean would admit to being afraid of things, he thought lightening might be one of them. How with each flash he could feel the distant product of hell clawing away for him. 

Different. It was the word Cas had used and for Dean and he thought he knew what it meant. Because he could relate to the way your sense of self could be torn from you. The way you could be changed by something. But, even with understanding, he couldn't begin to help himself through the thickness of the air right now. 

“Jess was my first friend.”

It translated. Quickly. Easily; Castiel had been the lighthouse for Dean's hell. Pulling him up. He'd been the rescuing hand. Literally. 

But Dean hadn't been Cas's. 

First friend as a human. Dean knew that's what Cas had meant. 

And yet, Dean felt that he could understand the way Cas saw him; Lacking. Unable to help or fix or heal. Dean knew if he'd called himself Castiel's first friend, it would be a lie. Because the angel had been reborn into something smaller, more vulnerable. And Dean wasn't there. 

Dean swallowed, choking on nothing but air, his breaths wavering as he suddenly pulled the car over. Cas had to brace his hands against the dash to steady himself, his sock-clad feet flying to the ground to stop himself from pummeling forward with the loss of momentum. 

The headlights were still on, but Dean turned the car off, peering through the sheets of rain, shushing him in warning. Telling him to start the car and pretend against the thoughts that found him in the thick of the storm. Telling him not to talk. But he couldn't listen. Because he was back in Cas's bedroom, staring at the broken glass, wondering why he hadn't picked up a broom the second they'd arrived. Wondering why his first action hadn't been to start to try and repair and make things right. And now he'd missed his window. 

“Dean?” came Cas's voice from the passenger's seat. 

Dean couldn't look at Cas. Instead, he opened the car door, barely flinching at the cutting rain, then slammed the door behind him. He kicked the tire of the car, twice, swearing as the rain soaked through his clothes. Water slid into his mouth as if in effort to seek out his lungs and fill them. 

He didn't hear the car door open when he finally fell down on the hood, sitting between the two beams of the headlights, the showers like static in his ears as his body temperature grew colder and colder in the storm. 

“Dean?” 

Cas was in front of him now. Close. Both hands stuffed in the sides of Dean's borrowed jacket, shoulders bowed against the cold. Cas's lip trembled as the headlights lit his eyes. 

Dean swallowed. “I can't fix this, can I?” He knew his face was pleading. If he'd ever thought to have pride around Cas, it was all gone now. Washed into the gutter with the rain. Pouring away any sense of self preservation leaving him totally exposed in front of Cas's shaking form. 

“Fix me?” Cas asked, his voice sad. And suddenly Dean realized what he was asking. 

“God Cas, no,” he said, reaching up and grabbing at both of Cas's arms like a life raft. “I can't fix us.”

Cas looked at him with an incredulous expression. “Dean,” he said. “You're not the one who's broken.”

Dean felt himself shivering, too. Unable to decide when it had started, thinking only that he'd give anything to always feel close to Cas like this, even if it was undeserved. 

Cas blinked, water dripping from his lashes, his hair soaked. He looked so beautiful; Cold and wet, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright. 

“No,” Dean whispered, getting lost in it. “You're perfect.”

Cas's eyes opened wide at this, and Dean felt his hands release from Cas's grip, his arms falling to the cold of baby's bumper. Fuck. He hadn't meant to. . . 

But Cas was staring, eyes squinted, as if trying to understand what Dean had meant when he didn't even know. 

Dean's gaze dropped, suddenly feeling the full force of the cold and the weight of Cas's scrutinizing stare. 

“Fuck,” he suddenly exhaled when he saw Cas's feet. Cas had come into the rain with no shoes, his feet dipped in a puddle of water.

“Cas, you gotta get back in the car, man. You're going to get sick!”

Cas glanced down at his feet as if he were noticing them for the first time, then slowly obeyed. Dean joined him a second later, fishing a blanket from the back seat, and without thinking began to wrap Cas's shivering form up with it, ordering him to take off his socks. 

When the heat was turned on to high, all the vents pointing at Cas's chattering form, Dean finally turned away, getting caught staring. 

He grabbed the gear shift, but before he could put it into drive, Cas spoke: 

“All that I meant was that she was my first friend that didn't know me. . . before,” Cas said. 

Dean tried to hold up a hand with a “Cas, listen, you don't have to explain,” but Cas cut him off. 

“No,” he said. “I want you to understand. I needed someone who didn't know how far I'd fallen. Who didn't reflect it back to me with every look.”

Dean was still frozen, his hand gripping the top of the clutch. “I don't see you that way, Cas,” he whispered. 

Cas bit his lip, his knees by his chest again, the blanket slipping down his shoulders in increments. 

“I think I'm starting to realize that,” he said, looking Dean earnestly in the eyes. Then, his gaze fell. “But I still do.”


	62. Accountability

The first thing Cas noticed when he walked in the house was that everyone seemed terribly aware. Charlie's face was comforting, Sam's encouraging and Dean's still every bit as concerned as he had been in the car. And, despite the fact that everyone gave off a flimsy air of casual indifference, it was easy to quickly see that the people around him were on edge. But, if they were in any way apprehensive about Cas's upcoming conversation with Sasha, Cas felt their feelings couldn't compete with his own; Despite the fact that he had volunteered to talk to Jess's friend, his footsteps fell heavy and reluctant. 

He knew he needed to do this. Still, he comprehended how different this experience felt from his days as an angel, when he'd bathed in power and immortality. Heaven had always been dismissive of accountability in favor of self-righteous morality. Even Cas could remember what it felt like to have vision so focused that anything that fell in peripheral was dismissed in neglect. How else could they justify heaven's part in releasing Satan? It was so easy to forget the small justices of life in favor of the grander picture. It was the same justification used to commit any atrocity, and countless numbers of genocides, Cas supposed. Because it was easy to forget that people mattered when you were infused with a cause. 

But Cas recollected his days as an angel in a sense of fog. Because they were distant to him now the way that humanity had been to him then. And he could understand how easy it was for both species—humans and angels to completely misunderstand one another. 

How could heaven comprehend what it was like to be hungry, scared and alone? How could they understand what it meant to sacrifice, to love, and to endure loss, not for a cause, but for people. For a person. How could heaven understand the need for accountability. For the simple need to say sorry: 

_Sorry I failed. Sorry I hurt you. Sorry I hurt Dean. Sorry I hurt Jess._

It mattered. People mattered. When he'd first disobeyed heaven, it was because Dean had been the one to help him understand that. And, as if he didn't have even more to be grateful to Dean for, he thought again of the night in the alley. The way that Dean had fought, relentlessly, to save Jess. Even at that moment, trapped inside his own mind and body, Cas had understood; Dean was really saving Cas. 

It was time to take a page from Dean's book. To acknowledge the ripples of impact Cas had made. To acknowledge the innocent girl whose neck was snapped in a pool of blood because a fallen angel had called her “friend.” The girl whose body had been dumped and left among murderers and criminals. The girl who'd once told Cas he was _her_ angel. The girl who only wanted to be loved, and instead was treated like an object, only to die as one in a war she couldn't comprehend. 

He'd never meant to hurt her, but even still, Cas understood the part he'd played, and it haunted him. Haunted him as he walked through the hall, barefoot, since his socks were still drying in the car. His feet padded along sounding infinitely more casual than he felt. 

Sasha was waiting for him in the library, Charlie had told them. Dean's face protested again immediately, but he kept his mouth shut. Still, Dean's shadow walked behind Cas through the halls, equally comforting and stifling. 

They stopped just outside the door, Cas looking at Dean's damp clothes, his hair barely starting to dry. Dean looked at the floor, then at Cas. 

“She wasn't your fault,” Dean whispered, understanding Cas's expression. 

Cas swallowed: “Maybe, maybe not.” 

Dean licked his lips, chin down and slightly dripping from the runoff from his hair. 

“I'll wait outside if you need me to,” Dean said. 

Cas could see Dean wanted to come with, but even he seemed to understand that this needed to be done alone. 

Cas gave a tight smile of thanks. He took a deep breath. Looked at Dean one last time, breathing him in for strength, then opened the door to the library. 


	63. For Jess

There was a fire lit in the library. Cas had seen it before, but this was the first time they'd used it. For some reason that felt meaningful, though he wasn't sure he could find a strong purpose for why that would be. _Fires bring light, warmth and heat,_ he thought. The way the heat bounced through the room, the long rug running in front of the couches, books and rugs—it was all meant to display a sense of comfort and homeyness. Instead, Cas felt out of place—he was the thing that couldn't find beauty in it all. Instead, his mind raced with thoughts of ashy forests and crispy wings. Fire was destructive. It could imprison him as an angel, and it mocked him now from the edge of the room. 

Then, there was Sasha. The beautiful woman sitting on the edge of the couch, her hair struck with the same light that moved in threatening patterns across the furniture and floor. But, for some reason it was an aesthetic experience watching the orange claim her skin, making her look like the reflection of a dwindling candle. 

Cas shut the door slowly, watching Dean's face, feeling a short sense of regret as he closed the door on it. The sounds were prominent: the whoosh, the click, the silence. 

Cas's feet gripped the floor tightly with each step as he made his way to Sasha, sitting reluctantly on the sofa across from her, his clothes still damp, his hair likely a wet mess. 

Cas swallowed: “Hello,” he said, stuffing his hands inside his pockets, trying to keep his eyes away from the fire. Trying to force himself to look at the girl across from him. 

She was sitting in exactly the same fashion, mirroring him. 

“I'm glad you came,” she said. But Cas could see the tension in her hands as she gripped the edge of the couch. 

He blinked, nodding awkwardly. “Of course I came,” he said, his voice dipping, “for Jess.” 

Sasha's jaw tightened, her stance stiff. But she nodded firmly, anyway. 

“You knew her,” she said, “I just thought that maybe if I. . .” her voice drifted, her fingers twitching against the cushions. Her body was rigid and Cas noticed the way she sat on the edge of the couch. 

He pursed his lips in understanding. “You know,” he said softly. “I can see it in your eyes. You know.” Then, more quietly, he choked: “What did Dean tell you?” 

Her mouth fell open at this, her eyes widening. 

“That she died in the alley,” she said, her tone harsh. 

Died in the alley. Even the phrase denoted something callous. And it had been. Cas remembered the sound. The fear in Jess's eyes. The empty stare that had come afterward. 

And he looked at Sasha's stance. He might not have been terrific at understanding human emotions or cues, but the girl in front of him was displaying her emotions clearly to him. It was as if she had soaked up the firelight that bounced on her skin and hair and lit herself with rage. And it was rage. Directed at him. Her eyes pierced him in that moment, and he felt as if he were staring into his own fiery conscience. The shadow of his mind projected young and small and volatile, calling for retribution. 

He blinked against it, feeling his own fists tighten in his pockets. “You aren't wrong to blame me,” he said. 

Sasha let out a shaky breath, her eyes welling with tears that fell freely down her cheeks. “You admit it then?” she asked, her voice breaking. “You killed her.” 

Cas didn't answer right away, instead, staring at the tangible form of his conscience. He watched the way the reflection continued to move against her skin. 

“She talked about you,” Cas said, his face broke into a sad smile. “Jess cared about you, Sasha.” 

And, suddenly, Sasha was standing, walking to Cas, putting a hand around his neck and shoving him up against the back of the couch. Cas could have stopped it, but it somehow felt just, having his conscience bring him back to it all. A reminder of Jess. A reminder of the night in the mob's house, a tight hand wrapped around his throat, fingers pulsing above each vein. 

“Don't you fucking say her name!” Sasha growled, pushing tighter against him. Her face was dark with the wash of mascara streaming down each cheek as she blinked and pressed tighter. And then, she pulled a small syringe from her pocket, flicking off the cap with one finger and pushing it against Cas's neck. Her tears streamed down her face and mingled with the remains of the rain water still drying on his shirt. 

Cas blinked, letting her hold him there. Holding his breath. 

“So, you're here to kill me,” he said quietly. He could feel the way the needle struck his skin, not breaking it, but tempting to puncture it with each small motion. 

“Did you kill her?” she asked again, desperate. Cas closed his eyes and he could see it: They alley. The bodies. Jess. 

He swallowed, feeling the needle scrape his skin lightly with the tug. Finally: “No.” 

Sasha's face was unreadable. She blinked. She held the syringe against his neck as if waiting for someone else to either move her hand away or closer to his neck. She looked into his eyes, searching. She must have found it—the grain of truth. Slowly, she let her hand fall. Cas watched as the syringe tumbled to the floor, bouncing against the carpet and landing under the couch. And then, Sasha's hands were on her face. She was crying the way that Cas wished he could cry, her shoulders shaking with grief and loss, her elbows on her knees and hands covering her face. 

Slowly, Cas placed a calming hand on her back. And, it reminded him of the day back in his apartment when he'd tried to do this for Jess, too. Tried to comfort her and pull her from the dark. Instead, he'd pulled her into it. 

“I'm sorry,” he said. “She died because the men in the alley were after me. I didn't kill her—I would never have wanted to hurt her. But, still, she died because of me. Because I cared about her, and they knew that.” 

Sasha pulled her hands down, setting them in her lap, and looked up at him. 

“When I saw the video of you killing those people,” she said, then her voice trailed off. 

Cas squeezed his eyes shut at the memory, then opened them again, taking a deep breath. 

“I was. . . being manipulated,” he said, finding the admission hard to say. “Controlled.” 

He swallowed. The confession almost felt like a lie before he'd uttered it, but once he'd said it out loud, he realized it was cathartic. 

Sasha bit her lip, staring at the floor again as she processed this. Then, quietly: “You were like us,” she said. “Jess talked about you, too. I know you were. . . like us.” 

Cas dug his toes into the carpet, understanding her meaning, and nodded slowly. “I was a prostitute,” he said in confirmation. “Like Jess. Like you.” 

Sasha looked away, then: “So Jess. . .” 

Cas leaned forward, resting his arms against his knees. “Was collateral.” 

More tears fell from Sasha's face at this, her expression rippled with pain. She blinked. Then, after a moment she said. “All whores are collateral.” 

Cas inhaled at this. He looked the girl on fire next to him, orange and red, her face fixed on a pattern on the rug. And he realized, she wasn't just talking about herself, or Jess. She was talking about him. 

“I needed someone to blame,” she said. “I needed someone to hate for taking her away from me. I needed this to be your fault. Because I needed to hurt someone.” 

She wiped at her face with her hands, tucking her hair behind her ears. The motion was so like Jess that Cas almost fooled himself into thinking she was still here. But Sasha's accent was thick, bringing him home when she said: 

“I think she was in love with you. I mean, I always gathered that you were friends, but once, late after a shift, she talked about you, and I'm pretty sure. . .” 

Cas's eyebrows furrowed, surprised. Of the things he expected Sasha to say, this wasn't even remotely close to what he'd anticipated. He knew that Jess was in love with him, of course, objectively, but it was a different thing to hear it out loud. And, it brought a new sense of loss. 

Cas nodded, pursing his lips. “I know,” he said finally. 

“God,” Sasha said, looking up at the ceiling. “I want to hate you. I was in love with her. She showed me what it was like to hope for something better. To believe in something better. I dreamed of a life with her. And she probably dreamed of having one with you.” 

Cas rubbed at the tightness in his chest building as Sasha talked. 

“Can you imagine what it's like to love someone who doesn't love you back, and then to lose them?” 

He didn't answer as he watched Sasha push at her eyes with her fingers as if the pressure might stop the tears. Might make it all go away. And his eyes drifted to the door. To the man on the other side of it, waiting patiently for him. 

_Can you imagine?_ Cas stared at the wood as if it were a foreign creature to him. Could he imagine? 

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, and it opened, Dean peeking through the frame as if he'd somehow heard his thoughts. Cas tried to pull himself together as he watched Sasha attempt to do the same. 

“Sorry,” Dean said, “It's been awhile, I just wanted to make sure everything was alright.” 

Cas kicked the syringe further under the couch with his foot, knowing there was no need to share this moment with Dean. Sasha wasn't a threat. Not anymore. 

“It's alright, Dean,” Cas said. “We're alright.” 

Nodding reluctantly, Dean shut the door again and Cas exhaled, not realizing he'd been holding his breath. Sasha looked up at him, studying his face, her expression unreadable, then, she glanced at the door. 

“Looks like you do understand,” she said. 

When Cas started to protest, he fell short, instead, neither admitting or denying the accusation. 

Then, Sasha stood, wiping the final tear tracks from her face, licking her lips. 

“I want to help,” she said. “I know you'll be planning something for the bastards who did this if you aren't already. I want justice. I want to help.” 

Cas almost protested. He almost said “no.” But, as he looked up into Sasha's face, he could see the way her features were set. She needed this, and he thought he could understand. 

“Alright,” he said. “Maybe it's time for both of us to do something. For Jess.” 

Sasha nodded, “For Jess.” 


	64. Boxes

It had only been minutes since Cas had felt the sharp point of a syringe against his jugular. He rubbed at the soft skin now with his fingers. Nothing. No marks. No claim to tell him that he'd again found himself on death's path, one word away from total blackness: _No._

His mouth had almost caught against saying the word, his tongue coated thick with the same passive demeanor he'd clung to for months to survive. Passive. Vulnerable. Victim. 

Cas looked at Sasha, feeling a sense of wonder at the fire in her eyes. He'd faced starvation, sexual assault, mind-control, manipulation, abandonment. . . death. 

And yet, he was still here. She was still here. 

_Passive. Vulnerable. Victim._

Cas curved his fingers around his wrist, feeling for his heartbeat, the way he had done so long ago on the train, and he realized he could feel it, as if it had been jump started. _No._ He'd said No. 

No. He didn't kill Jess. No. He didn't want to die. He wanted to live. He wanted to act. To do _something_ for the people he cared about. To hurt the people who hurt Jess. To hurt _him_. 

Cas wanted to become something better. Someone better for. . . 

“Dean,” called Cas, suddenly, relishing in the feel of finding his voice again. It was loud. Louder than he'd spoken in awhile, and Cas suddenly felt as if his throat had been muzzled with a silencer, not allowing him reign of his own vocal chords. 

The door opened quickly, Dean's damp, concerned face popping though the opening, his hair mussed. Dean's features turned to one of surprise and some confusion when he registered Cas. 

And Cas understood it. Because he could feel it. He stretched his shoulders back in a familiar gesture from his days as an angel—spanning his wings out to fill the empty space of the room. And, even if he knew they were gone, he almost tricked himself into seeing their black silky tips reaching out from him in his peripheral. Claiming themselves again like phantom limbs, remnants of his angelic glory. 

“Dean,” said Cas, feeling the vibrations of his voice in his chest, seeing himself through Dean's eyes too, as his mouth fell open slightly. 

Cas dipped his chin, feeling his old confidence creeping back in. His sense of power. 

“I want to kill him,” Cas said, then motioned to Sasha with his chin, “ _we_ want to kill him.” 

Dean paused as if he had reservations. And, to be truthful, Cas had expected him to. To argue that he should do it without Cas. To argue that Sasha would be a liability. But, to Dean's credit, he kept any reservations to the side and slowly nodded his support. 

“Alright,” Dean said. “We go get him. Together. Charlie. Sam. You. Me. . . ” Dean's face met Sasha's hesitantly, then finally he said it: “and Sasha.” 

And Cas felt a warm sense of gratitude in his chest as he watched the trust in Dean's eyes. Trust in Cas. 

“Together,” Cas said to Dean in confirmation. 

Suddenly, Cas found himself lost in Dean's stare. He looked into the illusion of fire in Dean's amber-green eyes. And he wondered how long it had been since they'd truly looked at each other like this. Seen each other. 

From the corner, Sasha moved uncomfortably. 

“I'll go. . .tell Charlie,” she said. 

Cas blinked as she walked away, his gaze falling back to the carpet, the moment broken. 

“If we're going to do this, though,” Dean started after a stretch of quiet after Sasha left, “you should have something.” 

Cas squinted, confused, as he watched Dean suddenly leave the room momentarily and come back with a box in his hand. 

Dean pushed it awkwardly into Cas's chest. He grabbed the sides of it before it fell. It wasn't heavy, or even important looking. In fact, the edges of the box were dog-eared, faded marker notes written, then crossed out on the side: _kitchen, pantry, bedroom_ —then, finally _Cas._ Cas recognized Dean's handwriting on the last inscription of his name. 

“What is this?” Cas asked, staring at it. 

“It's—” Dean started, “It's all we had time for. I asked Garth to get it for you a few days ago. . .” 

Cas stared down at the box, confused, then, finally, he set it on the couch, reaching down to tug at the soft corners of cardboard to open it. 

When he finally did, Cas froze, inhaling as he took in the contents. He paused, his hands in stasis, glued to the sides of the box. 

“You did this for me?” Cas asked, his voice losing strength. 

Dean shuffled his foot next to him, stuffing his hands inside his pockets. 

“Yeah, well,” he started awkwardly, “Like I said, Garth—” 

But Cas cut him off: “You did this for me?” 

He looked up at Dean again. Dean licked his lips, standing closer than Cas remembered, Dean's heat permeating the space between them, even if they were both still wet and cold. 

Then, finally, “Yeah, Cas,” Dean said. “Of course.” 

In the background, Cas could hear the sound of the rain. It wasn't often that outside sounds found their way into the sanctuary of the bunker. But, even deep inside its belly, Cas could hear the thunder from the angry sky as if the imaginary gods themselves had come to assault the world with violent blows. 

Cas let the sounds roll through now, though, as he reached inside the box. He let his hands slide across the faded fabrics, feeling the rough stitching of his trench coat and the soft silk of his tie. Then, finally, he felt the cold surface of his angel blade as his finger stroked the tip of it until he found the hilt. Cas wrapped his fingers slowly around the blade, tightening his grip, lifting the silver from the box until he could see his own reflection in the shine. He stood there for a moment, holding the weapon in front of him as if he were reacquainting himself with it. Then, finally he turned again to Dean: 

“Thank-you.” 


	65. The War Room

Cas had been in a number of strategy sessions, but this one felt different. He looked around the table in the war room with his new sense of purpose filling him as he slid a finger back and forth along the side of his angel blade. He turned it, looking into the upside down reflections of each person in the room, one at a time: Sam. Sasha. Charlie. Dean. 

“Crowley,” said Dean, leaning over the table. “We start with Crowley. We've been too casual with him, and it's time to put the snake to bed.” 

Dean seemed like he was purposefully not looking at Cas, his jaw tight when he declared coldly: “He needs to die.” 

“Ok,” Charlie said, “so we start with Crowley, but this is the King of Hell we're talking about here, how exactly are we supposed to—” 

Suddenly, Cas cut her off: “No.” 

Now Dean was looking: “No?” 

Cas heard the crack of thunder outside the bunker walls, ominous and thick. And he couldn't help but picture a dragon as thoughts of revenge and blood filled his nostrils. The weather report on the car radio had predicted the storm. And, considering all angels were somewhat of scientists themselves, Cas knew that the rain, hail and snow that was coming was just a shift in weather patterns from the different seasons. Easily explained by logic and natural phenomenon. 

But, Cas still couldn't help but feel like each roll of thunder was an explosion of dark magic, come to wake up the beast inside him again. 

“No,” Cas said, standing. He placed his hands firmly on the table for emphasis as he nodded to Sasha. “Jess first. We do whatever it takes to kill the mob. We tear the city to the ground if we have to.” 

Dean pursed his lips, then started talking, carefully: “Cas, listen, I get it. That need for revenge. The chance to make things right. But Crowley,” Dean's voice cracked suddenly and he cleared his throat. Cas noticed Dean's hands clenching at his sides. “Crowley needs to pay.” 

Dean couldn't even seem to look at Cas, and instead, trained his eyes against the ceiling: “What he did to you in that alley. . .” Dean said, his voice seething and accusing. “Maybe it's hard from your perspective to understand how bad it really was. But, Cas, trust me, it was bad.” 

Cas swallowed. It was the first time in a long time he'd heard Dean talk to him like that. He was angry. 

Cas glanced at his angel blade again, this time seeing himself in the mirror of it, suddenly wondering what it must have been like for Dean to see his face covered in blood, killing like he was made for it. 

I was made for it, he thought, closing his eyes. 

“I remember what it was like, Dean,” said Cas defensively, his shoulders tightening up. 

“Guys,” Sam tried quietly from the background to diffuse the growing situation, unsuccessfully. 

Dean rapped his knuckles on the table pausing, then more carefully: “Man, I know the mob is important, but in terms of the bigger bad, here. . .” 

“The bigger bad?” Cas said slowly. And suddenly, his voice was chillingly cold. Sounds of thunder exploded through the walls. The lights flickered. 

“You don't get to talk to me about the bigger bad,” he growled. “Crowley did this to me. Crowley dragged me around like a dog. He poisoned me. He made me massacre a hundred and twenty three people. He targeted me for doing something I didn't even do.” 

Dean's head popped up at this: “Wait, what did he say?” 

“That I stole from him,” Cas said, but moved on from it quickly. “The point is that it happened to me. Me, Dean. Not you. So, you don't get to talk to me about 'the bigger bad' or the 'greater good.'” 

Cas was breathing fast at this point, surprised at his own outburst. All eyes at the table were on him now, silent. He set his jaw, but calmed his voice when Cas finally said: “Right now. Right at this very moment, I want, first and foremost to do something about Jess. My friend. I need to do something meaningful for the people I care about. That is what will make me feel better.” 

He turned, finally, to Dean, deflating a little as he stared at him, just breathing. 

“I think I've earned that much, don't you?” he asked quietly. 

But Dean wasn't even looking. Instead, his eyes were fused to the table, wide, looking like he was going to be sick. 

When he noticed Cas waiting, though, he nodded quickly. “Yeah, Cas,” he said. “I'm sorry.” 

Cas squinted as he saw Dean's leg bouncing under the table, his hands fidgeting. And, even if Dean had sounded sincere, his mind seemed to have totally derailed from the argument and was now somewhere far, far away. 

“Ok, good,” said Cas quietly, the victory feeling somewhat hollow. He looked at the other three members of their troop who wore matching expressions as if they'd walked in on something somewhat private. And, suddenly Cas started to feel bad. True, Dean could be stubborn, and a part of Cas knew he would have to be, too, if he wanted him to listen. But Cas couldn't help but wonder if he'd gone too far as he took in the uncomfortable way Dean was sitting now. 

And, Dean's next words only confirmed this suspicion: “It's getting late,” he said to his hands as he stood. “Let's pick this up tomorrow.” 

Charlie, Sam, and Sasha all stood gratefully, walking from the room quickly, leaving Cas and Dean alone. Cas took a step toward him, biting his lip. 

But Dean was already walking away, and Cas was confused when he grabbed his coat and the keys to the impala. He opened the door to the parking garage, the sound of the rain thicker, echoing against the cement. 

“I didn't mean to come off so strong, I just. . . ” Cas said sincerely. 

Dean paused, his hand on the door, then pursed his lips. 

“No, Cas,” he said. “It was good. You were right. About everything.” And Dean's tone sounded strangely very apologetic and regretful. 

Cas's skin pricked with goosebumps at another sound of thunder and he crossed his arms. “Where are you going?” 

But Dean didn't answer. Instead, he shut the door against the incoming cold. Then Cas heard, through the door: 

“Don't wait up.” 


	66. Hail

_Shit,_ Dean thought, glancing down to the gas gauge in the impala. He rolled baby into the nearest gas station, battling against the storm as he did. In the rain, the station appeared abandoned, only the feeble lights of the aging stop reminding customers that the station was still functional and not a forgotten relic. And, when Dean got out of the car, his his ears were attacked with the violence of the rain again in a fresh way. Rain that was starting to turn to sleet in the later hours of his trip. It was clear this storm was only going to get worse. He pulled out the hose to the gas, watching tiny drips fall from the nozzle to his feet, his mind unable to cool or calm, his actions mechanical and deliberate. Credit card. Gas cap. Pump. Slamming buttons with his shivering fingers in the cold. 

Dean ran his hands along the front of his face, feeling a renewed sense of anxiety. He still had two hours of his trip to go, and then another three hours for the car ride back to the bunker. He wouldn't get back until early morning, he knew. And, it was too much time to spend in an endless loop of the confinement of his realizations. 

Dean glanced down at his phone tossed to the passenger's seat after some missed calls from Cas. He could see the beginnings of a text from Sam across the screen: “Dude. Where are you? Cas—” 

Dean sighed, swallowing and groaning. He fell back into the car, slamming his palms against the steering wheel. He closed his eyes tightly. 

_You fucked up, Dean_ . 

* * * 

“Did he text you back?” Cas asked Sam. Sam looked at his phone, shaking his head. He'd watched as Cas called his brother, wishing he didn't share in his anxiety. What the hell was Dean thinking? Why would he just up and leave in the middle of the night? 

“What exactly did he say?” Sam asked, tightening his grip on the counter he was leaning against. His voice was harsher than he'd meant it to be, but Cas appeared unfazed. 

Instead, Cas was still fiddling with his angel blade, twirling it against the tabletop creating new scratches in the wood, looking unsettled. 

“He said: 'Don’t wait up,'” said Cas. “That's it.” His voice held a spark of anger in it. And, possibly something else? 

Sam followed the moment, taking in Cas's reaction for a second before his phone buzzed against his hand. 

“I’ll be back in the morning,” Dean's text said. “Tell Cas I’m sorry.” 

He held the screen up for Cas and the angel's brows knit tightly as his eyes scanned the text. 

“What is he doing?” asked Cas, unconsciously digging the tip of his blade deeper into the top of the bunker's wooden table. 

Sam shook his head, glancing one more time at his phone with a concerned look. He paused, then: “I have no idea.” 

* * * 

When Dean pulled into the parking lot near the mountain, it was still dark. He reached into the glove compartment pulling out a flashlight. He looked at the hail barely letting himself muse on the inconvenience of doing this in a storm. Instead, he flipped his collar up in a meager attempt at shielding his neck and stepped into it. 

The onslaught of falling ice immediately jolted Dean as he walked to the trunk. He opened it, taking out a shovel buried in the back, blinking against the assault of the white falling flurries against his eyes. 

And, he found the tree that marked his spot to begin his short trek up the mountainside. 

His feet dug into the mud, his arms shivering, but he pressed on quickly, knowing the storm would only be getting worse. The hail probably hadn’t even hit the bunker yet, and the storm was moving in that direction. If he didn’t hurry, Dean felt confident he’d be stranded in a blizzard. So, he pushed on quickly, ignoring the way his skin began to numb, doing his best to follow the trail he’d created so many months ago. 

He glanced at the boulder--a marker that he was close. 

Then, almost out of nowhere his eyes fell on the jut of rock seemingly disappearing into the mountainside. From the wrong angle it would look like nothing; just another outcropping of rock. But, if you came at it from the right angle. . . Dean turned, finding the space and slipping past the illusion until he could see the opening of the cave. 

Dean slid a hand through his hair tousling it, sending sprinkles of hail careening down from where they’d nested. With every step, his flashlight bounced against the grey-green rock inside the cave. He ran his fingers softly along the wall of the shallow hollow waiting until he felt the sharp dip in the stone. 

There. 

Without hesitation, Dean was slamming the shovel against the ground, unearthing dirt and piling it against the cave walls. And soon, he felt the scrape of metal against plastic as his fingers dusted the dirt off the buried object. He pulled on the bag, watching the sediment fall away from the sides in piles. From the garbage bag, he pulled out the duffel, noting the fact that the contents were still in decent shape, even after all these months. 

He held his breath, hesitating as he pulled at the zipper, opening the duffel with a deep breath. He swallowed, staring down at his sins. And, he didn't know who he hated more, Crowley or himself. Because he'd understood inside the war room, Cas talking, putting the pieces together for him in full. 

Dean stayed on his knees, chin dripping into the bag his skin crying rainwater from his hair down upon the bag's contents: 

_I fucked up,_ he thought, letting his face fall into his hands, _I fucked it all up._


	67. Confessional

Dean's phone beeped on the seat next to him, letting him know it was dying as he plucked it from the leather. He’d taken the longest route to get back home and now it was four in the morning. Four in the morning and he was still sitting in the dim light of the bunker's garage, trapped in the belly of the impala unable to bring himself to go inside. 

He swallowed and pulled up Sammy's name on the screen of his phone: “Sam, wake up and come meet me. I'm in the hanger in the impala.” 

Dean sent the text before his phone went black. He tossed the now-useless gadget aside and leaned back pressing his fingers to his eyes to stave off a steadily building headache. 

He'd missed the snow on his drive home.. Barely. But it fell now, Dean knew, even if he couldn’t see it, cold and furious. 

As he sat, he could hear the pops from the cooling of the impala's engine slowly shifting back into the baseline temperature of the bunker's hanger. 

He looked at his phone wondering if Sam got his text. But, even though it took much longer than he thought it should have, eventually, Dean tuned in to the heavy gait of his oversized little brother. Then, there was a delicate knock on the window. Dean rolled his eyes, and reached over and opened the already unlocked passenger door. 

“Why are you knocking on the window? Get in here,” he said, annoyed as he tapped on his thigh with his thumb. 

Sam shuffled in, shutting the door with an equally frustrated face when he turned to his older brother. 

“Dean, where the hell have you been? We've been calling you. I was worried.” 

Dean squinted suspiciously at his brother. 

“No you weren't,” Dean countered, thinking of the years they'd been on hunts together. Leaving for a few hours with limited details wasn't exactly cause for the coast guard. 

Sam sighed, then said more pointedly: “Cas was worried.” 

And there it was again, the blinding headache creeping in from the back of Dean's skull. 

Dean's eyebrows furrowed, his voice flat and accusing: “He said that?” 

Sam looked at Dean directly, his voice softening: “He didn't have to.” 

Dean looked at his hands, silent. 

Sam looked like he wanted to say more about Cas, but then stopped, judging Dean's reaction, and his expression sobered. He always did have a way of picking up when something was off, Dean acknowledged. 

“What's going on, Dean?” Sam said, suddenly. “Why are we out here? Why am I out here?” 

Dean looked at the ceiling exhaling slowly, gritting his teeth so the air whistled through them. His eyes scanned the tiny stains on the car's roof. 

Then: “Just—just look in the back seat, Sam.” 

Sam shot his older brother a quick, confused look before diving his hands awkwardly over to reach the back. He grabbed the black duffel he found there, pulling it over the seat, slamming it against the vinyl on the way. 

“Careful,” Dean hissed before Sam finally had the bag sitting on his lap. 

“Why? What is it?” Sam questioned, curiously, but Dean couldn't bring himself to look or speak as he gestured for his brother to unzip the bag with a wave of his hand. And the anticipation felt like waiting for the roof on the impala to collapse on them both. 

“Ok, cryptic. . .” Sam said and Dean ignored him. 

With a confused look, Sam flicked a clump of dirt from the bag to the floor before slowly pulling back the zipper at the top, opening it. He reached a hand inside. 

Sam paused, looking at Dean, then back in the bag again. 

“Damn it, Dean,” he said, putting a hand on his forehead as he stared. Slowly, he pulled out a long white bone from the bag, lifting it into the light. The cloudy gray surface of the bone mocked him like the storm outside. 

“Are these—?” Sam started. 

“Crowley's,” Dean said plainly. “I stole Crowley's bones.” 

Sam held the bone for a moment, turning it like it had some secret to reveal to him. Then, finally, Sam let the bone fall back into the bag with a hollow clink then tucked his hair behind his ears. He pursed his lips staring at his lap for a moment, and then placed it carefully again on the back seat, zipping away the incriminating evidence. 

“So this is what you meant when you said you had a way to kill Crowley. But. . . how?” Sam asked when he’d turned back around. 

“A demon came to me when Crowley was fighting Abbadon for the throne,” Dean said dully. “Gave me the bones. Guess she wanted Crowley dead, but didn’t have the stones to do herself. She thought that after all we’ve been through with him, we would have killed him at the first chance with little to trace it back to her.” 

Sam’s eyebrows furrowed as he glanced at the bag. “Guess she was wrong,” he said. 

Dean grit his teeth, pursing his lips. “I wish I’d done it, Sammy. I wish to God I’d done it. I had no idea. . . ” his voice trailed off. 

Sam stared for a moment, processing, then: “But why didn’t you tell me?” 

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck, hating the betrayed sound in Sam’s voice. 

“Because I didn’t use them,” he said, his tone guilty. “I thought we could use them for leverage later and if you knew we had them. . .” 

Sam, surprisingly, didn’t sound angry when he said: “you thought I wouldn’t approve of waiting.” 

Both brothers sat quietly after that, like the impala had become a confessional, Sam the priest, silent in deliberation of judgement. But, it wasn't anger or disappointment Dean heard, but genuine concern when Sam said: 

“What are you going to tell Cas?” 

Dean let his ear fall against the steering wheel, resting it awkwardly so it dug against curve of the cartilage. He looked at Sam but part of him wasn't sure he could even see his brother right now amidst his thoughts of Cas. Picturing him on the other side of the door. Waiting to be let down by Dean. Again. His voice was hoarse when he spoke, giving the effect of someone screaming for hours, not driving quietly in a car: 

“I have no idea.” 

  



	68. Snow Globes

Dean waited another fifteen minutes inside the car after Sam was gone. He stared at the bag in the back seat like it might somehow come alive and try to attack him. 

“I could kill you right now,” Dean said, as if the bones were Crowley himself. And, it felt almost as if the King of Hell were staring back, taunting him. 

“ _You would take that away from Cas, too?”_ they seemed to echo in Crowley's accent. 

Dean sighed, running his hands across his face, then leaned into the back seat, grabbing the duffel roughly and shoved it under the seat, secretly hoping he'd chipped or broken a bone in the process, out of spite. 

Finally, he opened the door, got out, and slammed it shut. 

When he walked in to the bunker, everything was dark. It was still only 4:45 at this point and he was sure Sam had sauntered back to bed after their talk. 

_So everyone's still asleep,_ Dean thought. 

But just then, he registered how cold it was in the bunker. Bitter, biting cold. He glanced down the dark quiet hallways, curiously trying to find the temperature leak. Winding through the kitchen, he felt the air grow colder and he followed it slowly, letting his skin be a gauge to guide him. His toes curled inside his shoes as he pulled his jacket tighter, folding his arms. He rounded the corner to the front entrance of the bunker, and there, up on the balcony of stairs, stood Cas, his dark silhouette framed inside the entryway of the open door. 

He was wearing Dean's pajamas, feet barefoot as the snow tumbled from the darkness inside the soft hue of their porch light, fragments of white painting the tips of Cas's hair and making his skin shine as it melted. 

“You left,” Cas said to Dean, acknowledging his presence. But the he didn't look away from the snow or fold his arms against the draft. Instead, he tilted his head, resting it against the door frame breathing in the falling sky. 

Dean tentatively climbed the stairs, joining Cas inside their small opening to the outside world. He started to open his mouth to apologize, to explain, but everything felt caught inside his throat. 

When Dean didn't answer, Cas sighed. “Weather is so simple when you're an angel,” he said. Cas reached a hand out into the space in front of them, letting the winding patterns of flakes join and seep into his skin. “It shifts and changes with the spin of the earth making one piece hot and another cold." 

Dean blinked, suddenly wishing he could share Cas's experience right now. Could see it through his eyes. 

“The sky isn't a philosopher,” he said. “It's indiscriminate when it moves, not knowing that on the ground there are fragile things just trying to breathe.” 

Dean swallowed at Cas's words, finding himself once again drawn to thoughts of the chill of Cas's apartment in the city and just how telling a statement like this was. 

Dean raised his hand, placing it on Cas's shoulder, feeling the chill through his shirt. 

“Let's get you inside,” he said, but Cas ignored him, turning his head back to the snow. 

“Do you know what it's like to look at the earth from a thousand miles away?” he asked, eyes plastered to the falling precipitation. 

And Dean didn't answer. He was sure he wasn't meant to. 

But Cas continued, his face unreadable. “It's like a giant, white blanket,” he said, his voice muted, “except angels don't feel the cold.” Then he laughed a little, bitterly. “Actually,”  
he corrected, “they don't really feel any of it. We just watch.” 

Dean noticed as Cas's pronouns shifted ownership as he talked, his loss of identity etched into the subtext of his words. But Dean remained silent, waiting. 

“And if you come a little closer to the Earth, you can see the ocean. The waves folding over themselves. It's anarchy, really, ever moving sequences, sloshing in and out like a giant, shaken snow globe. Don't get me wrong. As an angel, everything is grandiose. Even the snow. What it sounds like. Feels like. Each flake feels like a hurricane. Every sound an echo in a canyon. And I saw it all. But, I never really understood it.” 

Cas's hand fell back to his side. “I didn't know that one day I would be small and insignificant. Just trying to breathe.” 

Then, Cas's eyes were locked with Dean's. Cas leaned in close to Dean, his face within a few inches. He held his breath until he couldn't anymore, exhaling and joining his cloudy chilled breaths with Cas's. 

“I didn't know,” Cas said, “what it would be like to really feel.” 

Both men started to shiver, but neither acknowledged it. Cas shuffled forward another step. 

Dean watched Cas's bottom lip tremble and shiver in the cold. But Dean felt hot and suffocated, needing to touch. To feel. 

Dean closed his eyes, clenching his hands into tight fists, looking up at the ceiling. If Cas wanted—if he needed. . . Dean swallowed, stilling himself like concrete. 

“We should get you inside,” Dean said again, rigid and stiff, trying to stop himself from wrapping around Cas and pulling him close. But it was Cas that moved this time. He reached forward and touched Dean's stiff arm, letting a hand run lightly from shoulder to wrist. 

Dean's breath hitched as he felt the cool touch of Cas's fingerpads against his arm. He watched, mesmerized, as Cas's fingers wrapped around his fist. And Cas froze, waiting. It took a minute, but finally Dean released the tight wad he'd squeezed his fingers in, letting his grip become limp in Cas's. 

Cas was just touching his hand, but Dean thought he'd never felt so exposed, nerves firing with every twitch. Then, Cas pulled both their hands to his chest, pushing Dean's palm up against the hard warmth beneath his shirt. 

Cas placed both hands on top of Dean's, holding him against his chest until Dean could feel it—the fast, erratic beats of his heart. His human heart. 

The moment was intimate. Pure. Beautiful with the falling snow. And wrong. Wrong because Cas was still hurting and Dean could see it in his eyes. Wrong because Crowley's bones lay incriminating in the impala. Wrong because he had no right to—but suddenly, he couldn't stop himself. Blue eyes. Can't go there. Beautiful messy hair. Don't hurt him. Pink Lips. You love him. 

You love him. 

Dean ran a hand along Cas's cheek, still wet from the snow, leaned in, and kissed him. 


	69. Tempest

Soft. Warm. Cas’s lips contrasted the stark cold of the outside. Dean held tight to Cas's jaw gingerly locked between his hands as they kissed. He heard the gentle pop of their lips parting and opened his eyes just in time to see Cas's eyelashes flutter a few times and open.

Dean held both men still, his palms biting against the angel's scruff, scratching his skin.

Cas looked confused. Surprised. “You kissed me,” he breathed.

They stood close enough that one more inch would make them go cross-eyed. Cas bit his bottom lip, still wet from Dean's kiss.

“I kissed you,” Dean said, not sure if his voice was flavored with apology or wonder. Probably both—it had been amazing, even as careful as it was. And, like a dam bursting, Dean felt the distance between them shatter.

He smiled, tasting snowflakes on his tongue and against his teeth.

“I've wanted to do that for so long,” he said.

“You have?”

Dean ran his thumb across Cas's stubble, then along the crease on the side of his mouth, overwhelmed. But then he saw Cas's hands in loose fists by his sides. He let his own fall.

“Oh god,” Dean said, feeling his stomach drop. “I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have kissed you. I don't know what I was thinking.”

He took a step back, but was surprised when a cold hand wrapped around his wrist. Tightly. And Cas looked overwhelmed by the moment, too, pulling Dean close.

They both waited, frozen. Then:

“Kiss me again,” Cas said.

The words had barely left Cas’s mouth and Dean lunged forward with abandon, this time kissing deeper, fiercely wrapping his fingers along the sides of Cas's hips, feeling the cut of them beneath the thin fabric. They moved together, Dean's head spinning as his world shrank to the consuming feel of Cas’s lips returning the kiss.

Cas exhaled sharply as the two of them shuffled together, his back hitting the door frame. Dean was about to pull away when he felt hands drag him deeper, lacing fingers through his hair and tugging at it, making him groan.

They both ignored the snow as Dean moved his hands, lifting Cas's shirt up with the scuffle, giving him access to the the small crack of skin showing between his shirt and pants. Warm, smooth skin, making him shiver, and not because of the cold.

God, he couldn't believe he was getting to do this. To actually touch Cas like this. Feel the texture of his tongue against his own as Cas started to card his fingers against the back of Dean's head. He groaned against the light touches, part of him not ready for what it would do to him to feel Cas for real.

Small tugs of pink lips between Dean's teeth. Cold inhales and hot exhales every time they pulled apart, even a little. Dean grabbing uselessly at Cas's t-shirt in handfuls.

Dean wrapped a hand around the small of Cas's back, pulling him in until their stomach's touched. Cas shivered beneath him and it was the only thing that brought Dean momentarily back from the heady delirium he was trapped in. He shoved the door shut with his foot, then rubbed his hands across Cas's prickled, goosebump-ridden arms, before grabbing a hand. They descended the stairs achingly slow, stopping and kissing every three steps before stumbling into Dean's room.

He felt the chill of Cas's absence as he stopped to close the door. His eyes were on the wood as one hand rested on the knob after it was closed. It was dark until the lamp turned on by the bed—Cas's doing.

 _Slow down_ , his mind warned, his breaths violent and staggered, nerves on fire as his brain tried to catch up.

“Dean?” Cas asked, from a few feet behind him as his knuckles pressed into the door, trying to calm himself.

He took a breath and turned, only to have it stolen from him. Cas sat on the bed, waiting, chest rising and falling, looking totally debauched with sex hair and dilated eyes.

“Fuck,” Dean breathed, walking toward him and falling to his knees in front of the bed, placing his palms on Cas's thighs and looking up at his beautiful, fallen angel.

Cas laced his fingers behind Dean's neck, both men's breaths loud and sloppy, even still.

Then, to Dean's surprise, Cas pulled back, tugging at the bottom of his shirt and lifted it over his head, letting the material fall to the floor.

Dean's mouth fell open. _Slow down_ , some small part of Dean's brain cried again, but he felt himself mesmerized by the way Cas's stomach carved inward when he breathed, his right peck twitching involuntarily when Dean dragged his palm up one thigh.

Cas leaned down for a kiss when Dean spotted the just-healing gashes on his hands. He pulled away. Cas furrowed his eyebrows, confused.

“Wait,” Dean said, gripping Cas's forearms and holding him at bay. “Wait a second, can we just slow down?” he huffed. “Can we just talk for a minute?”

But Cas's hands were already finding their way to Dean's top button of his shirt, freeing it and moving to the second.

Dean did his best not to stare at the naked chest in front of him, arousal stirring in his lower stomach. _Slow down_ , his brain warned again, but soon his shirt was completely undone, warm hands running up and down the plains of skin underneath. He gritted his teeth against the sensation.

“Cas, wait,” Dean said, but he was ignored as he felt his belt being removed and heard the thwack of it falling to the floor.

His blood was on fire as Cas pulled at his sleeves, freeing him of his shirt. He held tight to Cas's forearms at this point, as if to both anchor him and to slow it down. Instead, they were falling. Fast. The moments slipping like an avalanche before he could keep up.

But, when he felt deft fingers slip into the curve of his jeans, he grabbed them, closing his eyes tightly.

“Wait,” he said more forcefully. “Please, Cas. Just. . . wait.”

He opened his eyes, still gripping Cas's hands and pushed them forward until Cas fell back on the bed, sitting.

He blinked up at Dean, eyes clear and guile-less. “You don't want to have sex with me,” he said plainly, freeing his hands from Dean's grip.

Dean rubbed his hands against his face, groaning. “Fuck, Cas. Of course I want to sleep with you, just not like this.”

Dean sat on the bed next to him, trying to will his own hormones to cool and collect. Cas was staring at the ceiling, blinking quickly.

“I just wanted to give you what you want,” Cas said. But even Dean could hear how wooden and hollow it sounded. No, not hollow. Angry. Dean blinked and reached slowly across Cas's lap, gingerly picking up one hand.

Cas started to pull away as a knee-jerk reaction, then stopped, swallowing. He placed his hand trustingly in Dean's.

For all the touching they'd done tonight, this moment felt completely different and entirely intimate. Dean's thumb ran along the dips and curves of Cas's palm, not unlike the way he'd watched Jess's motions at the cafe.

“Yeah, I want this,” Dean said. “But this isn’t just about what I want, Cas.”

Cas simply stared at it for a long time. Then, the tears began to fall. Light, wet strips, running down his face.

“I don't need anything from you, Cas,” Dean said, wiping one of the tracks away. “Not a single thing.”

Slowly, Cas leaned forward, letting his head rest in the crook of Dean's neck as he ran his fingers through Cas's hair, shushing the tiny tremors of breath.

When Cas was finally calm, Dean helped both of them back into their shirts. Cas laid down on the bed, finding Dean's hand again and holding it tight.

“Stay with me,” he said.

“Of course,” Dean replied.

He laid down behind Cas, then hesitantly ran a hand across his waist, curling his fist against Cas's chest when he got the 'ok.'

They spooned that way for awhile before Dean turned the light off, reaching awkwardly across the blankets so he could still touch Cas in the process.

And, it wasn't until he heard the thick breaths of Cas, finally asleep, that his mind drifted back to the bones in the impala.

Cas, he thought. You deserve better.

Dean barely moved for fear of waking Cas, but he didn't sleep. Instead, he memorized the steady beat of Cas's breaths, inhaling his smell through the night.

And, in the middle of night, he thought his heart might break when, still asleep, Cas muttered: “I love you, Dean.”

 


	70. Cas's hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, @wanderingcas for all the help on this chapter! You are a lovely human being!

When Cas woke up, he didn’t know what time it was—the bunker had no windows, but part of him just knew it was morning. Cas blinked, staring into the fish tank. He liked the way the water was blue and cast wavy light patterns around the room. It was almost as soothing as Dean's little snores against his back and the heavy weight of an arm draped across his waist. 

There was an anchor in the bottom of the fish tank and Cas thought Dean felt like that now. Like a solid, comforting weight, keeping him in place. Minutes, maybe an hour passed in that safe, comforting stillness. 

Dean stirred and shifted again, slowly coming too. Cas felt Dean's stomach against him, making him shiver slightly. 

Behind him, Dean stretched, yawning. Cas's heartbeat quickened and he closed his eyes. It was childish to do this—pretend he was asleep. But it became difficult to breathe when Dean pressed his nose into his shoulder and carefully scooped Cas closer with an arm. 

He couldn’t pretend to sleep forever, he knew that, but it was just easier to close his eyes when he felt the dip of the bed as Dean propped himself up on an elbow to get a better look at Cas. 

He's staring at me. Watching me sleep, Cas thought. It reminded him of when he used to watch Dean as an angel. The first time he'd done it solely out of curiosity; What was sleep like for humans? But, soon, the curiosity faded into something more personal. Soon, he'd started coming simply to see the hunter's face when it was relaxed and safe inside the throes of sleep. 

Do you see that in me now, Dean? Cas thought. 

A finger touched the tip of his forehead, brushing back and playing with the curls on top of his ear. 

Dean was whispering. It was muffled by his shoulder, warm breaths spreading through the fabric, but then Dean’s head lifted and Cas could hear it: 

“Please say you’ll forgive me.” 

The finger picked at the the curl, running it back behind the cartilage of his ear. 

“I can’t lose you again.” 

Cas’s eyes blinked open. Please say you’ll forgive me? Cas bit his lip. For what? 

Cas knew from this angle he wouldn’t be discovered, but suddenly, he wanted to be. Needed to be. He shifted, stretching his toes, pretending to just be waking up. Immediately, he felt Dean’s fingers still. The resulting chill of them leaving his skin made him stiffen in apprehension. 

“You awake?” Dean asked. 

“I’m awake,” he said. “Barely,” he added when Dean looked worried that his confessions had been heard. 

Dean half smiled, but it was broken up with a look of distance as he scooted back from Cas, expression wary. 

Cas looked away, spying the belt on the floor, last night coming crashing down on him. Where he had been relaxed only a moment ago, his muscles locked apprehensively. 

He regrets last night, Cas thought, unsure of whether Dean regretted not sleeping with Cas, or kissing him in the first place. But quickly he realized it didn’t matter, because either way, it was still regret. 

Dean opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again as if deciding better of it. He licked his lips and turned away. 

Feet spilling over the opposite end of the bed, Cas felt like they were miles apart again, Dean’s back forming a wall between them. 

“Did you sleep well?” Dean’s voice drifted to him from behind the wall, his tone formal. 

Cas blinked, rolling to his own side of the bed, mirroring Dean. 

“Yeah,” he said. “You?” 

The reply was muffled through the ocean space: “Yeah.” 

Then, silence. 

In the quiet, last night became tangible again. He’d almost had sex. With Dean. Looking down at his hands, he thought about what it had felt like to feel Dean’s hands stroking his. He let a finger run along the scars starting to form on his palm, thinking about hell. 

He’d seen Dean first there and laid claim on his soul, branding him with that very hand. 

The hand that had performed heaven’s duty. Had pleasured men. Had killed. 

Cas glanced over at Dean who was grabbing clean socks from his dresser. Dean put them on when he couldn’t seem to find the pair he’d discarded sometime during the night. 

“They’re in the corner,” Cas said, pointing. 

Dean nodded, but sat down and put on the new socks, anyway. 

Makes sense, Cas thought. New day, new socks. 

It was a new day. One so different from last night. Time to leave behind regrets and things that are used up. 

Cas looked at his scratched hands. 

“You hungry?” Dean asked, and it was like a stranger talking. Cas’s chest hurt as he remembered the heat of Dean against him. But, what really broke him were the memories of Dean’s hand carding through his hair softly last night. He’d been tender in a way no one had ever been before. And, Cas would have to have been an idiot to the think that those kind of moments could last forever. 

He’d been an idiot. 

“Yeah,” Cas swallowed, blinking. “I could go for some food.” 

His toe stubbed Dean’s belt as he walked, and picked it up, handing it over. Dean took it, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

“Uh, thanks,” he said, stringing it through his jeans, avoiding eye contact. 

Dean paused at the door, his hand wrapped around the handle the same way he’d done last night when Cas waited for him on the bed. 

Say something, Dean, Cas thought. But, even part of him knew he felt like he didn’t deserve it. 

Dean opened the door slowly. Silently. Reluctantly, Cas stepped through. 

Dean was already walking down the hall when Cas reached behind him. He glanced back at the room one more time before closing the door on last night’s memories of snow and warm arms wrapped around him in the night. 

  



	71. Tick, Tick, Tick

Cas was warm against him, beckoning the morning with a sense of security. Dean inhaled the closeness, knowing he’d never felt so happy to be anywhere in his life. Next to Cas. Finally. It was a bright moment of levitation where everything stood suspended in perfection. 

The fall didn’t come until after Dean’s whispers: “Please say you’ll forgive me. I can’t lose you again.” 

It didn’t come until after the quiet moments where everything was calm and still. 

It didn’t come until the moment Cas opened his eyes. 

It was almost audible: A flick. No, tick. A tiny ticking sound that followed each motion like a metaphorical alarm sounding inside his eardrums. 

Like a curtain parting, suddenly Dean could see. See the hurt that still hung on Cas’s face and the vulnerability he’d taken advantage of. His lies hanging over them both. His fingers retracted, his stomach curling in unison. 

You bastard, he heard John’s voice. No, Bobby’s. 

Everything about last night with Cas had been like inhaling magic. This morning it was all undone. 

From quiet confessions and apologies to Cas while he slept to the final realizations about Dean’s own cowardice and what he’d almost done. What he was keeping from Cas. 

“Did you sleep well?” Dean asked as he got dressed. In his mind: How did I let it get here? 

“You hungry?” What the hell is wrong with you, Dean? 

Socks. Tick. The top button on his shirt. Tick. The sound of Cas’s shallow breaths. Tick. Tick. Tick. 

It wasn’t enough to suck air in like he was coming up from the depths. To wash away the conflicting desires he felt simply being near Cas and the overwhelming sense of being unclean. 

Cas handed him his belt, and he felt the brief temptation to hang himself with it. 

Cas doesn’t need someone to take advantage of him. He doesn’t need a liar. 

Dean thought about the way he’d brought him to tears last night. Someone who cares about you doesn’t do that. He didn’t know why it took Cas opening his eyes to realize the truth, but it was blatant now. 

You’ll never get to have Cas, he thought. You’ll never deserve him. 

He could have told Cas. He should tell him. Instead his eyes caught his messy morning bed head and the way the fish tank lit Cas’s eyes. He couldn’t tell him. In fact, he couldn’t say anything at all. Reality’s pull was much stronger now and soaked in fear; What if Dean told Cas and he left again? Dean might deserve that, but Cas would be left to the mercy of the world again and the thought made his throat go dry. 

Tick when his feet hit the tile. 

Tick when Cas closed the door. 

The hallway walk was long and quiet, but Dean hated watching Sam’s face even as they entered the room together. He watched the change in reactions in his younger brother’s eyes: curious, surprised, then worried. 

“Dean,” Sam said after they’d sat down for breakfast.. “A word?” 

Reluctantly, Dean dropped his cereal spoon back into the bowl, plunking it into the milk. 

As soon as they were behind closed doors, Sam asked, “What happened last night?” 

Dean’s head hung immediately. “I don’t know if I can talk about this.” 

But Sam was persistent. “I think it’s time you do, Dean. Because in case you haven’t realized it, you’re running out of time here.” 

Tick. 

Time. Of course. They were going after the mob. Dean almost laughed when he realized that he hadn’t even considered the fact that this could potentially be a suicide mission. 

He squeezed his temples. “Damn it.” 

Sam ignored him. “So, are you going to explain to me what happened? Or, maybe I should go ask Cas.” He grabbed the door handle, but Dean stepped in front, blocking him. 

“We kissed.” 

Sam stepped back, eyes widened. 

“Wow. Okay,” he paused, not looking unpleased. “So I take it he forgave you for taking Crowley’s bones?” 

Dean gave a guilty look to his hands. 

“You didn’t tell him,” Sam said in realization. “Dean, what the hell are you thinking? You need to say something. Cas deserves it. Hell, you deserve it.” 

“I don’t deserve shit,” Dean said. 

“Dean, that’s not true,” Sam said, sounding exasperated. “You’ve made some choices that you regret. We’ve all done that. I have.” Then, in a quiet voice: “Cas has too, Dean. He worked with Crowley. With Metatron. You don’t think that he would know you were making the best choice you knew how? You don’t think, of all people he would understand?” 

Dean swallowed. “I don’t think, of all people, that he should have to understand.” 

Sam stepped back from the door, biting his lip. “I know that you think that all of this was your fault. That everything that happened to Cas was your fault, but Dean, you are allowed to make mistakes.” 

Lips pursed, the tension began growing in Dean’s shoulders. 

“And, it just so happens that your mistake saved my life,” Sam continued. 

Dean turned his back, walking a few steps to add some distance, then said: 

“And hurt you. And killed Kevin. Alienated Cas.” 

He didn’t dare look at Sam’s face when he mentioned Kevin’s name. He was surprised at his own ability to utter it. 

“Yeah,” Sam admitted quietly after a moment. “Yeah, you’re right. You did.” 

Dean turned, furrowing his eyebrows. “See?” he said coldly. “Even you can see it. I have a lot of blame to haul.” 

Sam sighed. “And, you don’t think you’ve changed since then? You don’t think you’re a different person? Because, I could give you my opinion on that topic if you want.” 

Thumbing at his pocket, Dean took a long time to finally answer: “Different, maybe,” Dean consented reluctantly. “But not less guilty. I’ve been trying to fix Cas, but the truth is he isn’t the one who needs fixing. It’s me.” 

He could see Sam’s expression melt into submission. He’d won the argument. Or, at least Sam knew it was a lost cause. 

“Fine,” Sam said. “Then, fuck you.” 

Dean’s eyebrows raised in surprise. 

“What?” he choked. 

Sam walked up close and got in his face. “Fuck you, Dean. That’s what you want to hear, right? That I hate you for what you did to me. That you killed Kevin. That Cas will never, ever forgive you.” 

Dean backed up, but it was unnecessary as Sam’s posture changed to something more understanding and consoling. 

“Sometimes it’s just easier to hate yourself, then to do anything about the guilt,” Sam said. 

Dean didn’t respond. 

“So,” Sam continued. “ If you can’t do something for yourself, then think about Cas. You love him, right?” 

Exhaling slowly, he was unable to do anything more than give a tiny twitch for a nod. 

“Then, do something about the secrets. The guilt. If you can’t do it for yourself. Do it for Cas. Just, do something. You’re running out of time.” 

Tick. Tick. Tick. 

“Do something,” Dean repeated. 

  



	72. Stratagem

“It’s not going to be easy,” Sam said, placing another pretzel on the table to represent the mob’s forces. “In our recon trip Sasha and I found only two entrances to their warehouse. Both were guarded heavily by at least two to three men. And that was just what we could see on the outside.” 

Cas shifted in his seat, glancing quickly at Dean, not surprised to find him looking away. Lately, Dean had consumed himself with the mission. Cas often caught him staring at the map Sam and Sasha had compiled like it held some secret he was hoping to be privy to. 

Ever since the night in the snow, Dean had become distant in a way not even their months of separation had provided. Every conversation was short. When they were in the same vicinity, Dean barely glanced at him. Cas was still sleeping in Dean’s room. Alone. 

Cas’s mind drifted to the middle of last night when he’d seen shadowy footsteps stop and pace a few times outside the door. Dean hadn’t come in, and he wouldn’t look at Cas now. 

Cas glanced at his hands trying to forget the night in the snow. He’d had sex with so many men that he barely remembered the faces of half of them. And yet, he found himself fixated on the way kissing Dean had been. . . emotional. 

“What do you think, Cas?” came Charlie’s voice. 

Cas cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, what?” he asked. 

“What do you think about sending someone in through the vents in the roof?” she asked. 

Cas nodded, trying to focus on the mission. Jess, he thought, bringing his mind back fondly to the girl who swore too much, telling Cas filthy jokes to make him blush. The girl who always looked at Cas like he was something important. . . 

“Yes,” he said. “But, it’ll need to be one person. Too many and we’ll draw a crowd. Sam, is it a possible mode of entry from an adjacent building?” 

“You’d have to be an olympic jumper,” Sam said, trailing off. “And, there were guards stationed up top as well.” 

So, no to the roof. 

Dean was staring at the table, not unlike the last meeting they’d had in the War Room. Looking distracted, and lost in thought. 

“Dean?” Cas asked, timidly. “Do you have any ideas?” 

Dean pursed his lips, looking at Sam when he answered: “I think the real the question is, what the hell do we plan on doing when we get inside? We’ll be hugely outnumbered. This isn’t like the alley, we don’t have. . .” 

Realizing his mistake, Dean looked at Cas apologetically. 

“No,” Cas said softly, “We don’t have that.” 

Thankfully, Sasha interrupted: “What about a bomb?” 

The room went silent. 

Sam and Dean exchanged glances, making Cas wonder how often the two brothers spoke habitually without words. 

“It could work,” Sam said quietly. “But it’s risky.” 

Sasha’s jaw hardened in resolve. “All of it is dangerous,” she said. “But this plan represents the least amount of risk. We only need one person to go inside and plant the bomb.” 

Sam rubbed at his jaw, clearly mulling the idea over, while the only thing Dean seemed able to do was to stare again at the table. Cas noticed, distractedly, that Dean was biting his lip hard as if he were trying to keep something from spilling out. What is it you aren’t saying? Cas thought. 

“It sounds plausible in theory,” Sam said, “but they would need to get inside, undetected, sneak past the guards and get close enough to their leaders. That’s not even the hard part. Because, if they don’t get caught planting the bomb, there’s always the chance they could get caught trying to sneak out.” 

Sam took a deep breath. He paused, then quietly whispered: “And who would go?” 

Without hesitation, eyes ablaze with resolution, Sasha said: “Me. I’ll do it.” 

Everyone stared at Sasha for a moment, assessing. Cas stared, too. They were so different, and yet, he began seeing the similarities more and more between Jess and Sasha. His mind played tricks on him as he looked at Sasha’s fiery expression, thinking he could see the two women’s faces blink back and forth. Jess. Sasha. Jess. Sasha. 

Sasha isn’t Jess, he thought, trying to remind himself they weren’t the same. He barely knew her. And yet: 

“No,” he said, suddenly. Forcefully. Taking himself by surprise. “You’ll get yourself killed.” 

“That’s a risk we all signed up for. It makes the most sense for it to be me,” she said. “Besides, I may still be able to get them to believe I’m working with them. It’ll be my way in.” 

Cas’s knees were bouncing under the table as he picked at his hands. She was right. Of course she was right. But suddenly, all he could see were dead bodies lined against the alley bricks and Jess’s knees buckling underneath her as she fell. 

“I hate to say this,” Sam said, “but this is probably the strongest option. This may be the best way to plant a bomb with the least risk.” 

Suddenly everyone was reluctantly nodding in agreement except Cas. 

Cas closed his eyes, trying to breathe. 

“Damnit, Jess, they’ll kill you on sight!” he yelled. 

Again, the room fell silent. 

Cas opened his eyes, regrettably meeting Dean’s open-mouthed stare. 

“Sasha,” Cas corrected uncomfortably. “I meant Sasha.” 

Charlie finally spoke softly, addressing her words to Cas: “We’ll be there close by the whole time, Cas. She won’t be alone anywhere but inside the building.” 

Cas’s hands were in fists under the table. He stilled his knees, then looked at Sasha. 

“You won’t be alone, period,” he said. “I’m going with you. You can say you took me as a prisoner.” 

Sasha nodded in agreement. Charlie looked worried, but uttered a small “ok.” Dean bit his lip until a small bead of blood formed near the side. Sam looked at Dean. 

“Ok,” Sam uttered flatly in the deafening silence, a sense of heaviness falling over the room. And, his tone reflected the suddenly solemn atmosphere that overtook them all as he weakly declared: “We have a plan.” 

The only thing louder than the dark cloud hanging over them all, was the sound of Dean’s chair banging the ground as he knocked it over to storm out of the room. 


	73. A Little Tug of Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a bit since I've updated. Thank-you all for the patience and love. Mwah!

The sounds were the most prominent sense gripping Cas’s mind as Dean left the room. The smack of the chair. Fading footsteps. The slamming door. 

The heaviness projected in each sound reverberated like an echo in the room, dousing it with discomfort. 

Even Cas could sense it, though he didn’t fully understand the clues. The shift. Dean’s anger. Cas looked at his hands, picking slowly at them again. 

Emotions shouldn’t still feel new to him, and yet, every time he looked at Dean he felt cheated of logic. 

For all those months, he’d tried to observe emotion methodically. He’d done everything he could to distance himself from the stirrings in his chest in favor of the clinical. 

You feel the cold, you put on a jacket. Hungry, you eat. With that line of analysis, prostitution presented a viable option for the elimination of hunger and cold. 

But Crowley had sent him like an attack dog to do his dirty work. Jess was dead. Cas had inadvertently killed the woman Sasha loved. And, it had awoken something in him to see her pain mingled with his. 

For months, he’d convinced himself that the decisions he made only affected himself. That his choices existed in a strange and lonely bubble. 

I just want to make it right, he thought. 

Sam rapped his knuckles on the table with a dissatisfied look. He glanced at Cas, his hair falling to the sides of his cheeks, then tucked it behind his ears. 

“Just give Dean a minute to cool down,” Sam said quietly, to no one, then stood. “I’m going to go see if the bunker has any explosives.” 

“I’ll help you,” said Sasha, looking eager for an escape. 

Cas stayed very still, his tongue dipping in and out of the grooves of his upper teeth, breathing only through his nose like he couldn’t get enough air. He almost forgot about Charlie sitting a few feet from him with her hands folded against the wood. 

Long seconds passed before he consciously relaxed his stance, taking her in. 

“Hi, Cas,” she said with a sad smile. 

Cas couldn’t bring himself to smile back, but he gave her a small nod and a “hello.” 

She stood and walked to his side, gesturing to a chair next to him. 

“May I?” 

Again, a nod. 

The chair creaked as she sat. Cas glanced in the direction of Dean’s room again, tapping his feet, unsure of whether he should try to go and talk to him or not. He settled on looking at Charlie. The view, however, wasn’t much better, he realized, as he spied the yellow bruise still healing on her temple. 

Cas looked away, hiding his hands under the table. 

Charlie gently touched the bruise with a sigh, noticing his reaction. 

“This?” she said, letting out huff. “It’s not the worst thing that’s happened to me. You should have seen me after I got in a fight with a troll. Role playing is supposed to be relatively safe, but the troll decided it would be a good idea to throw real rocks at the queen. She was really into authenticity.” 

Charlie lifted up her hair, showing Cas a long scar behind one of her ears. 

“Ten stitches,” she said, matter of factly. Cas gazed at the place where Charlie’s skin had collected itself together again, staring at the white line in wonder. 

“I also got shot, once, while hunting. . .” she said, absently, not noticing Cas’s hand coming closer. He reached a finger out, running it softly down the scar. He paused, looking at Charlie apologetically. 

“It’s alright,” she said affectionately, letting her hair fall back over the scar. 

Cas squinted as if still trying to see it through the strands of her hair. 

“She shouldn’t have done that,” he said plainly. “The troll.” 

Then, Cas looked up at Charlie, eyes now following the bruise, wishing he could forget that moment. His voice choked a little when he said: 

“I shouldn’t have done that.” 

Charlie paused. 

“I’ve been hurt by Dean, too,” she said slowly. “And there are people out there with Charlie-shaped scars. You don’t own the monopoly on hurting people, Cas. Especially when this one wasn’t your fault.” 

Cas exhaled, slowly. 

“I’m just sorry I hurt you,” he said. 

Charlie started to protest, but instead, closed her mouth, seeming to realize it was a hopeless cause. 

Then, tentatively, she leaned her head on Cas’s shoulder as a wordless form of reassurance. The feeling was strange, reminding him of the way Jess felt curled up against him in bed. He peeked down at her, squinting, and she looked back up at him, warmly. 

Slowly, his face broke into a reluctant,half smile, and he found himself mesmerized by the way that Charlie could find and tug at that small light left inside him, when he’d thought there was only darkness. 

Her head lifted after a moment, and Cas found himself missing the feeling, briefly. But, the solemn air settled, their moment of light blanketed again by clouds of bombs, mobs and fallen chairs. Blanketed by the sight of Dean’s door down the hall. 

Cas looked to his room, feeling a different kind of weight surround him. He could see the glint of his angel blade next to them, reminding him that Charlie’s light wasn’t his. 

“I never wanted to hurt anyone,” Cas said. “Least of all you. But the truth is, I’m not sure if I know how to stop anymore. It’s part of me.” 

He paused. “Angels are born for conflict, after all.” 

He was surprised at the bitterness that creeped into his statement. 

It was hesitant and small when Charlie answered: “But Cas, you’re not an angel anymore.” 

Cas’s breath stopped for a moment as he closed his eyes. His heart beat quickly in his chest. 

Human. 

“You get to make your own choices, now,” she continued. 

Cas opened his eyes. Charlie waited, letting her statement sink in, the room that was built for war drenched in silence and stillness. 

But even still, Cas knew Charlie didn’t understand what it meant to need violence. Vengeance. It was a language few could understand. 

“Thank-you for forgiving me,” he whispered, instead of disagreeing. 

“Maybe someday you can forgive yourself,” she said, quietly. 

And suddenly, he was back on the park bench, before the abuse. Before the loss. Staring at humanity in wonder at its goodness. Devouring what it was like to be moved in such a mighty way by something so seemingly insignificant. 

“You’re very human,” he said to Charlie. 

She gave off a small laugh. “That’s the second time I’ve heard that this week,” she said. “Well, practically. I was called normal, anyway.” 

Confused, Cas squinted, then swallowed as Charlie looked up at him, feeling himself grateful for the soft clarity she possessed. Trying to replace the stagnant images of possessive and violent hands that had seized his wonder for humanity with her hopeful goodness. 

He paused, getting sucked back in to the hurricane that housed his thoughts of Dean. He thought of the way that Dean had looked at him the morning after their kiss with such. . . regret. 

Cas suddenly wondered if he would ever get his own innocence back again. Wondered if he could offer more than pain. 

Maybe for Sasha, he thought. Maybe for Jess. 

If he could kill the men who’d hurt them. If he could do one good thing for people he cared about, then maybe, just maybe, it could change him, too. 

He stood, staring apprehensively down the hall, willing himself to find his way back to Dean. 

Maybe It’s not too late to help Dean understand. 

*** 

Cas knocked on Dean’s door multiple times. He could music blaring on the other side and while he was hesitant to keep knocking, he was also not sure if he could be heard. 

“Dean!” he called, but there was no answer. 

He knocked harder: “Dea--” 

The door swung open, and Dean leaned against the frame with a scowl. He sighed, looking like he was doing his best to try and calm himself. To hide how angry he was from Cas. But Cas could still see it. Clearly. 

Cas hesitated, “Dean, I. . . can we turn the music down?” 

Dean walked to the stereo, flipping off the switch. He sat on the bed, looking tired. 

“Look, Cas,” he said, his knee bouncing, his fist clenched. “Right now isn’t the best time to talk to me.” 

Cas hesitated, but took a step into the room. “This won’t take long.” 

Dean reluctantly scooted over on the bed so Cas could sit, too. Dean had an elbow on one knee with his hand rubbing at the back of his neck, holding his gaze to the ground. 

“I can tell that you’re upset,” Cas said plainly. 

To his surprise, Dean stilled. He laughed, shaking his head, putting a fist over his mouth. 

Cas scowled, feeling his own frustration rising up. 

“I am trying so fucking hard not to be furious with you right now, Cas,” Dean said. “You’re an adult. You make your own decisions. I get that. But that plan in there,” he gestured to the kitchen with a stiff hand. “Is suicidal.” 

Shifting his weight, Cas turned closer to Dean. 

“Look,” Cas started, “I know I haven’t been clear about why this is important to me. Why I need to do this. If can just explain, then, maybe you can understand.” 

Dean bit his lip, and his response was softer when he said. “I understand, Cas. I do. But this isn’t the way. You’re going to get yourself killed.” 

Cas squinted, confused. 

“Every plan we have right now is a risk, Dean. Our numbers aren’t unlimited. You had to know that.” 

Dean shook his head again. “Not like this,” he said. “This plan. . . this plan is plain is reckless. Stupid.” 

Cas licked his lips, trying to speak calmly. “I don’t understand why you’re getting so upset about this, Dean.” 

And, it was beyond Cas why that would be the statement to set Dean off. Dean stood, grabbing at the back of his neck tightly with both his hands. Cas could see the red marks and it reminded him, uncomfortably, of his own scars. 

His voice ramped up with Dean’s agitated demeanor. 

“How is this plan different from any other plan we could come up with?” Cas asked. “What exactly is your problem with this, Dean?” 

Suddenly Dean yelled. “You!” he said. “I had thought I could at least be there, by your side. But now it turns out you’re walking straight towards death and I have to watch helplessly from the building next door? How the hell did you think that would make me feel, Cas? I just fucking got you back!” 

Dean paused, his face conveyed emotion that Cas couldn’t fully grasp. In fact, Dean almost looked like he’d been hit when he said: 

“I can’t lose you again.” 

Cas froze as Dean’s statement hit him. Hard. He absorbed Dean’s facial features with the intent to understand. What exactly was Dean trying to say? 

Dean’s shoulders fell, his hands dropping to his sides. 

“I love you,” he said quietly, contrasting his sharp tone only a moment before. “I’m in love with you, Cas.” 

The room stilled. 

“What did you say?” whispered Cas. 

His mind tried futilely to wrap around the concept. He felt his chest tighten at the thought that Dean could. . . love him? 

He thought of the other night. The kiss. Cas had wanted that. In fact, once it was offered, he realized he’d always craved closeness with Dean, even as an angel. Even before he could fully comprehend the pull. 

But, he’d just figured he’d fucked that up, too. He’d satisfied his customers. They liked him strong, attractive, submissive. But he couldn’t even do that right for Dean. 

Part of him had known that people had sex for love. Husbands. Wives. Partners. But it was almost as if the two had been so mutually exclusive for Cas that he hadn’t realized Dean might want more from him than quick fucks and gratification. Might want more than for Cas to just to exist as a warm body. 

“I know I don’t have a right,” Dean said, looking apprehensively at Cas, seeming to grow more nervous at his silence. 

“I know you probably don’t feel the same way,” he continued. 

Cas’s head jerked up at that. He took in Dean’s vulnerable stare, realizing he was standing like an offering in front of Cas. Baring himself in a desperate last attempt to save his life. Even if he didn’t believe Cas loved him back. 

Cas held out his own hands, displaying his palms to the sky as evidence. The same hands that had stopped Dean the other night. 

“How could you love me?” he whispered, incredulous. 

Dean’s face fell. He took a step forward, then slowly knelt down in front of Cas. Tentatively, and gently, he reached forward and grabbed one of Cas’s hands. Leaning down, he kissed one, then softly kissed the other. 

“You’re perfect,” he said again, for the second time. He looked at Cas, his features softer than Cas had ever seen. 

“I can’t lose you again,” Dean repeated, this time pleading. 

Not pleading for Cas to have sex with him. Not for Cas to love him back, or to submit to him. Finally, Cas understood what Dean needed. What he was asking for: 

He was begging for Cas to let Dean love him. 


	74. Coins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg I know it's been so long! Thank you to all of you who have patiently waited for updates. This story hit 387 subscribers tonight, and I just. . . can't believe you all stuck around. Love you all so dearly and I'm virtually hugging you.
> 
> Also, if you're on tumblr. . . pls come say hi! I would love to hear from you. My handle is @moonlightcas Love you! Mwah!

“Almost” was a powerful word, Cas knew. Those who cheated death by a hair’s breadth, called the word a miracle. Heavenly. But, Cas knew, “almost” could curse you with mirages of what could be or what could have been. Something of heaven, still, perhaps, but a notion of a vengeful God and angels with demanding and blood-hungry swords. 

Two sides of an event with very different outcomes.

But right now, “almost,” was a coin stood on its edge with a clawless angel fallen from an empty heaven perched on top.

This was a defining moment, or would be. Was he about to almost gain, or almost lose everything? 

“I can’t lose you again.”

Cas blinked, still trying to summon the words. The thoughts.

“What do you need, Cas?” Dean asked. “What do you want?”

There it was again. 

He swallowed. Suddenly, Charlie’s voice was in his head again: Choices.. 

“I’m not convinced I’ve made a single choice that wasn’t born out of necessity,” Cas finally said. “Ever.”

Dean’s eyes stared intently, listening, but silent.

“What do I want?” Cas whispered, like a revelation. He slid off the bed, kneeling beside Dean. The floor was hard against his knees, Dean’s hands warm inside his. His heart felt like it was finally resurrected, a small light beginning to spread inside him. His light.

“You,” he whispered, finally. “I want you.”

Cas tightened his grip on Dean’s hands, suddenly aware. He stood and pulled Dean to his feet slowly, taking in Dean’s face as he registered Cas’s words, taking in the way realization settled in Dean’s eyes, like storm clouds clearing. And it felt that way for Cas, too. Like he was able to see again, maybe for the first time. 

He took a step forward, then two. Slowly, Cas raised his hands, holding Dean’s face as he touched his forehead to his, both men’s eyes closed, breathing each other in.

“Wait,” Cas said. He pulled away, then walked slowly to the door, locking it and shutting off the light.. Then, he walked to the bedside lamp, turning it on, Dean’s eyes following him the whole way. Cas made his way back to Dean, leaning in close to his ear:

“Just--” Cas whispered. “Don’t move.”

Dean nodded, and Cas felt a sense of calm and stillness in the moment.

Cas started slow. With soft hands, he reached to Dean, letting his fingers trail up and down his arm. Then, he reached for Dean’s face, scarred hands hesitant and slightly shaking with anticipation. When his hand finally made contact, Dean inhaled at the touch, eyes fluttering as he tried to stay still while Cas mapped him with slow movements, tracing his mouth, his cheeks, his neck. 

Cas’s fingers trailed down Dean’s chest until he touched the tip of his shirt. With a bold movement, he reached down, pulling Dean’s shirt over his head. Dean helped just enough to clear the clothing as Cas shucked it to the floor. 

Then hands again. Slow hands on Dean’s chest and arms, trailing over his stomach as Dean’s muscles tightened then released with the buildup of each sweep. But he stayed still. So still. Even when it clearly became too much to keep his eyes open and he closed them tight, biting his lip to stay himself through each sensation. 

And it was so different than the night in the snow. So different than any other man Cas had been with. He watched Dean wait, faith written across his entire body. Trust.

Cas began to place light kisses on Dean’s neck, ears, and shoulders, trailing them down his stomach. Dean’s fists tightened against the sensations, his breathing speeding up, but still he didn’t move. Eventually Cas pulled away, taking off his own shirt, equalizing the moment. Dean’s eyes flung open in the momentary absence of touch, his eyes wild and completely undone.

Cas inhaled it, overcome with the raw stillness of it all.

He swallowed, looking at Dean, who blinked as Cas put his hand on his heart, just as Dean had done to him not days before. Dean’s heartbeat was fast as he stared down at Cas, waiting.

Suddenly, Cas leaned in, pulling Dean into an embrace, feeling Dean’s hands slowly touch him, one at a time, running up and down the curves of his back, feeling every jut and space. 

Then, finally, Cas looked at Dean:

“Now.”

It was like a dam had burst. Suddenly Dean’s hands were on him with full force. He pulled Cas in towards him like he was starved for him, and Cas found that he was, too, tightly gripping skin and kissing each other like they’d never been kissed before. 

Dean pinned Cas against the wall. Cas pinned Dean. They made their way through the room, pulling at buttons, zippers and belts, until finally they were on the bed, rolling around in their boxers, making out like teenagers.

“God,” Dean said as Cas kissed his neck, rutting up against him. Cas smiled as he watched Dean’s chest rise and fall, his lungs fast, pulling for more air. 

“I want this,” Cas said quietly, like a revelation. 

Dean’s head lifted, his chin on his chest. 

“What?” Dean asked breathlessly. 

Cas blinked, holding Dean tighter.

“I want this, Dean,” he said again.

Dean smiled too, eyes radiant. He ran his hand along Cas’s jaw, so much softer than the moment before. He leaned forward, kissing Cas gently now. 

“I love you, Cas,” he said. 

They just stared at each other for a moment, then Dean asked Cas again: “What do you want?”

Cas got up to grab the lube and condoms. He stood in front of Dean, taking off his boxers. He watched Dean’s eyes roam his body, his glances looking nothing like the hungry stares he was used to. Instead, he saw love. Instead, he saw awe.

Cas gently climbed up on the bed, helping Dean out of the rest of his clothes, too, then straddled him. Cas began to prep himself when Dean stopped him, grabbing the lube and helping Cas instead. There was softness in the intimacy as Dean’s fingers spread him open, their eyes still locked in an exchange of pure vulnerability. 

Dean prepped him longer than was probably necessary, brushing his fingers up against Cas’s prostate, making Cas let out small involuntary sounds in the process as he clutched at Dean’s forearms in reaction. When Dean was finished, his eyes were on Cas, again.

“God, you’re perfect,” Dean said, kissing him. 

Cas reached down, stroking Dean a few times before helping them both into condoms. 

“Are you . . .mmm. . . are you sure?” Dean asked, as Cas continued. 

Cas grabbed Dean’s hand, squeezing it.

“I’m sure,” he said. 

Cas lined himself up, guided himself down onto Dean, savoring the tiny, but comfortable stretch. He watched Dean’s mouth fall open in pure bliss, and Cas suddenly felt almost overwhelmed with the realization that Dean was here. With him in this moment. He placed a hand on Dean’s chest, raising himself up as Dean’s hands found their way to his hips. 

Cas took the reigns, gradually picking up as both men’s heads fell back in the sensation, breathing recklessly together, Dean’s hand came forward to stroke Cas, and Cas shifted, tightening in the sensation, making Dean moan.

“God,” Dean breathlessly exclaimed.

Cas lifted himself up, sinking down again and again, faster, knowing it wouldn’t take long. He could see it in Dean’s eyes. . . so close. Then, Cas felt strong hands stilling him, slowing his movements. Dean looked ready to go over the edge, muscles tight, mouth open, but he was slowing himself. Slowing Cas.

“Dean?” Cas asked. But while one of Dean’s hands slowed Cas’s movements, with the other, he was stroking Cas still. Cas felt the energy building inside himself, begging him for release. To let go. He leaned forward, eyes shut, gripping Dean’s shoulders as Dean worked him towards orgasm. He suddenly understood Dean’s intention--Cas first. 

Dean’s hands stroked him attentively. He watched Cas like he were drinking in his every reaction, moving with Cas’s movements, staying in sync. Then, with a breath, Dean thumbed the head of Cas’s cock

Cas closed his eyes, mouth falling open as the sensation finally overtook him.. He’d had orgasms before, but this was different. It built from his toes, stretching through him in waves as he lost the vision of Dean to the haze of it. He rode Dean through his orgasm, leaning over his chest as he felt Dean come a moment later.

He laid down on Dean’s chest, shaking as Dean released a cry of relief, fists balled against Cas’s back.

It took what felt like forever for the high to come down, Cas’s ears slowly adjusting again to the sounds of the room. The sounds of Dean’s breath. The hum of the lamp. 

Dean stroked Cas’s hair and back, holding the two of them together as they both went soft, the room still and Dean’s touch soothing and intimate. 

Cas blinked, staring at the wall, reveling in the feel of Dean’s skin against his. They were here. Together. Finally. The emotions gripped Cas like the sun, beating down on a lonely, lost traveler, showing him the way. Showing him the way back home. The way back to Dean.

He fought back tears for the second time that week.

Then, very quietly, he whispered: “I love you too, Dean.”

 

***

Dean lay in bed, wrapped in a cocoon of Cas. He could smell him. Taste him. He brushed his fingers across Cas’s hair, a revelation coming to him: when he thought he loved Cas before, now he knew he’d had no idea.

Now, he could feel Cas’s warm breaths against his shoulder as he slept. His face was vulnerable, still, and finally peaceful. Dean thumbed Cas’s cheek in his sleep, smiling at the way he twitched and nuzzled deeper into the crook of Dean’s arm. 

The love he felt for Cas before was deep. Visceral. But now, his feelings extended to places he didn’t know existed inside himself. His chest ached with his feelings for Cas, vying for expression and for a way to give life to something he barely understood himself.

Dean bent down, gently kissing the top of Cas’s head, marveling in the miracle of last night. Of right now.

This was paradise. 

This was hell.

Pursing his lips, Dean’s mind drifted to the bones. The bombs. The lies. 

It was torture as Dean unwound, forcing his body to untangle from Cas’s warmth, blinking at the ceiling to keep the emotions at bay. He got dressed in a cloud of Cas, eyes drifting up and down his naked back, view barely cut off at the base of the spine by a sheet. Dean locked in the curves of Ca’s back to memory, sketching the tiny birthmark just below his right shoulder blade.

And too soon it was time. He put on his jacket and boots, grabbing his keys and wallet quietly, careful not to wake Cas.

Then, Dean bent over him, leaning down. Ever so slightly, he let his lips brush the top of Cas’s head: 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t lose you again.”


	75. Aint No Sunshine When He's Gone

The light was out when he woke up, but it was still dark as if it were the middle of the night. It took Cas a moment to remember the sunshine. Dean. He smiled, sifting his hand through the sheets to the other side of the bed. But he didn’t find Dean’s warmth. Instead, his hands knocked up against something in the middle of the bed, hard and rough.

“Dean?” Cas asked, reaching over to turn on the bedside lamp. His hands fumbled in the dark, eyes adjusting to the light once he found it and flicked it on. 

But it wasn’t dean. It was a dingy, dirty looking duffel bag with a piece of paper on top. Curiously, Cas reached out, picking up the paper, unfolding it to read the note:

Cas,

I’m so sorry. I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve last night. Just look in the bag and you’ll know what I’ve done. But, maybe it can help you now to have the freedom to finally live your life. I don’t know if you’ll ever forgive me for any of this, and I don’t expect you to. The thing is. . . I can’t let you die. I love you too much.

And that was it. No signature. Nothing besides the note and a bag that looked in worse wear than Cas had been the night Dean found him. Cas’s breathing sped up as he ran to the other side of the bed. He pulled at the zipper almost ripping it off with the speed, then reached inside. He froze as his hand touched one of the bones, fingers retracting quickly, almost as if it had burned him. Realization set in. 

Cas took a step back, shaking his head back and forth. 

“No,” he whispered. “No.”

Cas ran into the hallway, barely thinking about the fact that he was still naked. His bare feet pounded along the corridor, the soft sounds suddenly loud like thunder. 

He ran to the one of the rooms in the bunker, throwing the door open.

“Dean?” he yelled frantically. He knocked over a lamp with his hip, ignoring the crash as he sprinted to the next room, and then the next, throwing the doors open, calling Dean’s name loudly as if it might somehow bring Dean back to him. 

It didn’t take long for Cas to draw attention. Sam came first. 

“Cas? What’s going on?” he said, surprised, lowering the gun he held up in the air. He spied Cas’s naked state, mouth falling open. He looked at the open door to Dean’s room briefly, putting the pieces together. 

“He’s not gone,” Cas said not bothering to look at Sam. He said it more to himself, than to Sam, throwing open the next door, turning on the light. 

Sam followed, stowing his gun. 

“Gone?” 

Cas ran to the library. 

“Dean?” Cas yelled again. 

Sam trotted after him, and Cas could see the worried silhouettes of Charlie and Sasha in the hall. Sam grabbed Cas’s shoulder. Whether it was to stop him, or calm him, Cas wasn’t sure. 

“Cas, let’s get you some clothes,” Sam said quietly. 

Cas shrugged him off, running past the girls in the hallway without stopping to acknowledge them--straight toward the garage. 

The hallway seemed to go on forever, taking too long to get to where he was going. But, he could feel the moment his feet hit the cement, the moment he arrived, even before the light was turned on. A moment before the knowing, where maybe, just maybe it still wasn’t true. Maybe in the darkness, the impala would be there waiting, Dean somewhere inside the bunker, or out for a walk. 

Sam turned on the light. Cas froze.

No impala. No Dean. 

Cas’s limbs suddenly heavy. Dead. 

He closed his eyes, pushing his palms to his eyelids. No.

“I found this note in Dean’s room,” Charlie said to Sam in the background. 

There was the sound of moving paper, then Sam’s small, muttered “Oh, god. Dean.”

It took a moment for Cas to find his legs again, palms still pressed against his eyes causing stars in the dark. 

When finally he let them go, it took a moment to adjust again to his vision. He turned on unsteady legs towards the other three people in the room who looked as pale as he felt. 

In the corner of his eye, Cas could see Dean’s rolling work stand, tools glimmering in his peripheral. He locked his jaw, walking over and holding onto the table with both hands for support. 

Cas blinked, staring at the wrenches and screwdrivers like they were personally offensive to him. Things tied to Dean. He picked one up, holding it in his hand, staring for a moment. 

Then, with all his strength, he chucked it across the room. 

His grip tightened through his forearms, his breathing thick and staggered. And suddenly, he thought he felt like Crowley in the alley, anger spreading through him like venom. 

Dean’s gone, his mind supplied, making his stomach twist with a new form of torture. 

He picked up another tool, throwing it, too, tool after tool, uncaring where it landed, what it hit, or what damage it caused.

And the anger was like waking up. Like he’d been in an emotional coma for so long, only for Dean to finally help him realize what it meant to feel again. Last night had been a moment of peace Cas had never had before. Something he’d never even known that he could have.

But now. Now, all he felt was rage.

His shoulders trembled with the weight, and he knew, had he been an angel still, he would have crushed through the metal by now.

Then, with all his strength, Cas shoved the table over, screaming as he did.

“Fuck!” he yelled as the tools came crashing down, the loud sounds echoing in the empty space.

Sam’s hands were on him again, stopping him. But it wasn’t necessary. 

Cas finally looked into his worried eyes.

“He’s gone, Sam,” he whispered.


	76. It's a long road away from you

Cas looked like Dean from behind, wearing Dean’s clothes, shoulders hunched as he loaded the guns and weapons into the duffle quickly.

“The bomb’s gone,” Sam said from the doorway as he watched. He was still holding Dean’s crumpled note, feeling dazed.

“Fucking Dean,” Cas said, stowing a gun in the back of his pants, and yeah, he really looked like Dean right now. The scowl. The anger. Sam swallowed.

Angry was good. Angry was better than Cas falling apart, right? Why the hell wasn’t Sam angry? Because he understood? Because he thought he knew why: ‘Fuck you, Dean. Do something.’

He let the paper fall to the floor, blinking against the guilt.

“Are you coming?” Cas asked gruffly as he slung his bag over his shoulder.

This snapped Sam back into reality.

“Coming.”

Cas nodded, with a small look of gratitude before it hardened again into an anxious, determined expression.

“Tell everyone they have five minutes before I leave,” he said gruffly.

“Ok,” Sam said without argument. Everyone would be ready, he knew.

***

Dean didn’t stop for food. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel knowing he had little time before they caught up.

His phone rang.

Damn it. He’d known the call would come, and still he wasn’t sure he could ignore it.

But it was Sam’s number on the screen.

He hesitantly hit the answer button.

“Sam, I’m sorry--” he started.

“Don’t you dare hang up,” came Cas’s voice. He was livid, and it sent a chill down Dean’s spine, and an ache of guilt into his chest.

“Cas,” Dean exhaled. His finger twitched, asking for permission to hang up. It would only make things harder to talk, he knew. But Cas’s voice, even angry, was soothing in the sea of stress.

The silence stretched.

“I’m doing this for you,” Dean said. “So you can be safe. So you can get your rev--”

“Bullshit,” Cas cursed, and the venom in it surprised Dean. “This isn’t what I want.”

The next words tried to match the anger, but to even Dean it was clear that more than anything it was hurt, when Cas said: “It wasn’t supposed to be you.”

Dean bit his lip, unsuccessfully holding back the choke in his voice: “You’re right. It’s not for you, but that’s just it. I’m not sure I know how to be unselfish when it comes to you. I need you safe. I need you ok. And you need all of this to be ok. Jess. . .”

The other side of the line got quieter when Dean mentioned her name.

“I get it now, Cas. You have people you care about. People like Jess. Like Sasha. You deserve friendships and the ability to help the people you love.”

“But I love you, Dean,” it was so straightforward, lacking shame or hesitation. A fact. A certainty.

Dean squeezed his eyes tight, wishing his first thought wasn’t: _don’t say that, Cas_.

“It’s simple,” Dean said, his voice almost a whisper now. “Now you don’t have to choose between yourself and the people you care about. I know it was shitty, but I chose for you. Now you get both. You get to live, and I promise I’m going to end this for you.” He was smiling a pained smile as if trying to sell Cas on the rightness of it all, even if his chest was wrought with emotion, his hands tight against both the steering wheel and his phone.

“You know you need this,” Dean said finally.

The phone went silent. Even Cas couldn’t refute it. Dean knew he wouldn’t be able to.

“Not like this,” Cas said. “Damn it, Dean. Let me. . .”

“Fall on your sword?” Dean said “You’ve already done that enough. It’s my turn, now. You need it.”  
Dean swallowed up the silence, barely able to concentrate on the road, understanding that this might be the last time he would get to talk to the man he loves. Cas knew him better than anyone, and he would know that there wouldn’t be any talking Dean out of this. The conversation was over. Instead, the silence was a stall. Dean’s goodbye.

“I love you, Cas,” he said.

“Dean, I--” Cas started. Dean hung up the phone.

***

Dean was here. He parked his car three streets down. He hid the bomb inside a backpack, taking some to disguise it inside a cut out of a sleeping bag. Not normally his style, but definitely less suspicious. It wasn’t great camouflage, but Dean didn’t need it to be.  
The walk left his heart pounding in his ears. If Cas’s plan had been reckless, Dean’s was even more so.

He walked in open daylight, noting how it was only a few blocks over where the streets had been filled with the dead, Cas’s hollow eyes staring at him, so unlike the warmth last night. He chose to think of the latter, knowing this was worth it. Would be worth it, because Cas was everything. After their last conversation, he was sure Sam would understand. He wished for a better goodbye for his brother, but even Dean knew he couldn’t do it.

So, his footsteps were sure as he walked straight to the front door, he made eye contact with the scarred faces of the guards outside, lacing his thumbs inside the straps. He stepped up to the door and was blocked by the larger of the two guards.

“Private property,” said the man, crossing his arms.

Dean’s eyes were cold: “Your boss wants to see me. Trust me.”

The man eyed Dean’s backpack.

“Drugs?”

Dean shrugged out of it, trying to act casual.

“No.”

He unzipped the bag, showing its contents and even moving them around gingerly. He pushed the bag lightly against the man’s chest.

“See? You can hold it if you’d like. I just want an audience with the boss.”

The man looked skeptical, but finally glanced up to a camera held in the corner above the door, his eyes questioning. Suddenly, there was a buzz, and the door opened.

“Looks like you were right,” said the guard. Dean took a hesitant step forward.

“Leave the gun.”

Dean swallowed, unable to help the glare that surfaced as he pulled his gun from the back of his jeans, handing it to the man slowly.

“My bad,” he said, though the words were anything but apologetic.

A woman was there to greet him at the door. She was big, and fierce, and trained a gun on Dean immediately. Her expression looked unimpressed.

“This way.”

The warehouse had been converted into rooms and hallways--a dark, windowless labyrinth. Every door Dean passed by, passed through him in return. He could feel the nature of what he was about to do in realness now. Men. Women. People who hurt Cas, he reminded himself.

Finally he reached the room of the mob boss, his back turned, an open bottle of scotch on the desk.

“Dean Winchester,” the boss said, without looking at him. The door shut behind Dean like the opening to a vault, and he did his best to force himself to breathe.

Finally, the mob boss turned, slowly. His hair was disheveled, eyes bloodshot as if he hadn’t slept much, his suit unruly and a mess. In his eyes-- hate. His accent was thick when he spoke:

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is [@moonlightcas](https://moonlightcas.tumblr.com/) feel free and come say hello! :)


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